Chapter 1
The family of Dashwood had
long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was
at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many
generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the
general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of
this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for
many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his
sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a
great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and
received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the
legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to
bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the
old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all
increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his
wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of
heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive;
and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence
By a former marriage, Mr.
Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a
steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his
mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his
coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon
afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore the succession to the
Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their
fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's
inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and
their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child,
and he had only a life-interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his
will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment
as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his
estate from his nephew; — but he left it to him on such terms as
destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more
for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son; —
but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was
secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for
those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any
charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was
tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his
father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his
uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or
three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his
own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all
the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his
niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark
of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds
a-piece.
Mr. Dashwood's
disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and
sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living
economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate
already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the fortune,
which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived
his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies,
was all that remained for his widow and daughters.
His son was sent for as soon
as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the
strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his
mother-in-law and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had not
the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a
recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and
he promised
to do every thing in his power to
make them comfortable.
His father was rendered
easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to
consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for
them.
He was not an ill-disposed
young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be
ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted
himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he
married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable
than he was:—he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was
very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John
Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself; — more narrow-minded and
selfish.
When he gave his promise to
his father,
he meditated within
himself
to increase the
fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece.
He then really thought
himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to
his present income, besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune,
warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. —
"Yes, he would give them three
thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would be enough to
make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could spare so
considerable a sum with little inconvenience." —
He thought of it all day
long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent.
No sooner was his father's
funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her
intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants.
No one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the
moment of his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so
much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only
common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing; — but in HER mind
there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any
offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of
immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of
her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of
shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she
could act when occasion required it.
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood
feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her
daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have
quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced
her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for
all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their
sakes avoid a breach with their brother.
Elinor, this eldest
daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of
understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only
nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to
counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs.
Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent
heart; — her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were
strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother
had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be
taught.
Marianne's abilities were,
in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's. She was sensible and clever; but
eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She
was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent. The
resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great.
Elinor saw, with concern,
the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued
and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their
affliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was
voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. They gave
themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in
every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting
consolation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she
could struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother,
could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper
attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and
encourage her to similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister,
was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a
good deal of Marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she did
not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of
life.
Chapter 2
Mrs. John Dashwood now
installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law
were degraded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they were
treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness
as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child.
He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their
home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining
there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood,
his invitation was accepted.
A continuance in a place
where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her
mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than
hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of
happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally
carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she
was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Dashwood did not
at all approve
of what her husband intended
to do for his sisters.
To take three thousand pounds from
the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most
dreadful degree.
She begged him to think again on
the subject.
How could he answer it to himself
to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a sum? And what
possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by
half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his
generosity to so large an amount.
It was very well known that no
affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by
different marriages;
and
why was he to ruin himself, and
their
poor little Harry,
by giving away fall his money to
his half sisters?
"It was my father's last
request to me,"
replied her husband,
"that I should assist
his widow and daughters."
"He did not know what he was
talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had
he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as
begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child."
"He did not stipulate for
any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only requested me, in general terms,
to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his
power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to
myself. He could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required
the promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the
time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home."
"Well, then, LET
something be done for them; but THAT something need not be three
thousand pounds. Consider,"
she added,
"that when the money is
once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it
will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor
little boy —"
"Why, to be
sure,"
said her husband, very
gravely,
"that would make great
difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum
was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it
would be a very convenient addition."
"To be sure it would."
"Perhaps, then, it would be
better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half. — Five
hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!"
"Oh! beyond anything great!
What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if REALLY
his sisters! And as it is — only half blood! — But you have such
a generous spirit!"
"I would not wish to do
any thing mean,"
he replied.
"One had rather, on
such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think
I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect
more."
"There is no knowing what
THEY may expect,"
said the lady,
"but we are not to think
of their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to
do."
"Certainly — and I
think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is,
without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand
pounds on their mother's death — a very comfortable fortune for any
young woman."
"To be sure it is; and,
indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have
ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure
of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably
together on the interest of ten thousand pounds."
"That is very true, and,
therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more
advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for
them — something of the annuity kind I mean. — My sisters would
feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year would make
them all perfectly comfortable."
His wife hesitated a little,
however, in giving her consent to this plan.
"To be sure,"
said she,
"it is better than
parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood
should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in."
"Fifteen years! my dear
Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase."
"Certainly not; but if you
observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid
them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a
very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no
getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a
great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the
payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it
is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities
were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and
then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be
no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it.
Her income was not her
own,
she said,
with such perpetual claims on
it;
and it was the more unkind in
my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my
mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an
abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the
payment of one for all the world."
"It is certainly an
unpleasant thing,"
replied Mr.
Dashwood,
"to have those kind of
yearly drains on one's income.
One's
fortune,
as your mother justly
says,
is NOT one's
own.
To be tied down to the
regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means
desirable: it takes away one's independence."
"Undoubtedly; and after all
you have no thanks for it. They think themselves secure, you do no more than
what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever
I did should be done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself
to allow them any thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to
spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."
"I believe you are right, my
love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case;
whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than
a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if
they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for
it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present
of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for
money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my
father."
"To be sure it will. Indeed,
to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea
of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare
say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance,
such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to
move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth,
whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther;
indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but
consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your
mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand
pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which
brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay
their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have five
hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more
than that? — They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be
nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any
servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind!
Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I
cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them
more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give
YOU something."
"Upon my word,"
said Mr.
Dashwood,
"I believe you are
perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his
request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will
strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to
them as you have described. When my mother removes into another house my
services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some
little present of furniture too may be acceptable then."
"Certainly,"
returned Mrs. John
Dashwood.
"But, however, ONE thing
must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland, though
the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was
saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be
almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."
"That is a material
consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy indeed! And yet some of the
plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock
here."
"Yes; and the set of
breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. A great
deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live
in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of THEM. And I must say
this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his
wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost
everything in the world to THEM."
This argument was
irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting
before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if
not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father,
than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out.
Chapter 3
Mrs. Dashwood remained at
Norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight
of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it
produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind
became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its
affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and
indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood
of Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she
could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and
ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier
judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her
mother would have approved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been
informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in
their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She
doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it
himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction,
though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than
7000L would support her in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the
sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and
she reproached herself
for
being unjust to his
merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity.
His attentive behaviour to
herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him,
and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his
intentions.
The contempt which she had,
very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very
much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a
year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every
consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former,
the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so
long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater
eligibility, according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters'
continuance at Norland.
This circumstance was a
growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John
Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to
their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at Norland, and who
had since spent the greatest part of his time there.
Some mothers might have
encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars was the
eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it
from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his
fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike
uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared
to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the
partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of
fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one
who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not
recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or
address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them
pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his
natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an
open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had
given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor
disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see
him distinguished — as — they hardly knew what. They wanted him
to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother
wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or
to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John
Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to
see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or
barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of
private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more
promising.
Edward had been staying
several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's
attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her
careless of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and
unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness
of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and
approve him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on
the difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which
recommended him most forcibly to her mother.
"It is enough,"
said she;
"to say that he is
unlike Fanny is enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him
already."
"I think you will like
him,"
said Elinor,
"when you know more of
him."
"Like him!"
replied her mother with
a smile.
"I feel no sentiment of
approbation inferior to love."
"You may esteem him."
"I have never yet known what
it was to separate esteem and love."
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains
to get acquainted with him. Her manners were attaching, and soon banished
his reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his
regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt
assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated
against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be,
was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his
temper affectionate.
No sooner did she perceive
any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their
serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as
rapidly approaching.
"In a few months, my
dear Marianne."
said she,
"Elinor will, in all
probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but SHE will be
happy."
"Oh! Mama, how shall we do
without her?"
"My love, it will be
scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each other, and
shall meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother, a real,
affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward's
heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sister's
choice?"
"Perhaps,"
said Marianne,
"I may consider it with
some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet
— he is not the kind of young man — there is something
wanting — his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace
which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister.
His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue
and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no
real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires
Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who
can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent
attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the
matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me,
those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose
taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into
all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh!
mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last
night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much
composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my
seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven
me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful
indifference!" —
"He would certainly have
done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but
you WOULD give him Cowper."
"Nay, Mama, if he is not to
be animated by Cowper! — but we must allow for difference of taste.
Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy
with him. But it would have broke MY heart, had I loved him, to hear him
read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the
more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I
require so much! He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and
manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm."
"Remember, my love, that you
are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a
happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one
circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from
her's!"
Chapter 4
"What a pity it is,
Elinor,"
said Marianne,
"that Edward should have
no taste for drawing."
"No taste for drawing!"
replied Elinor,
"why should you think so?
He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing
the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means
deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would
have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so
much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture;
but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general
direct him perfectly right."
Marianne was afraid of
offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation
which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people,
was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone
be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she
honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced
it.
"I hope, Marianne,"
continued Elinor,
"you do not consider him
as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you
cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were
your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."
Marianne hardly knew what to
say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet
to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she
replied:
"Do not be offended, Elinor,
if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits.
I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities
of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the
highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every
thing that is worthy and amiable."
"I am sure,"
replied Elinor, with a
smile,
"that his dearest friends
could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."
Marianne was rejoiced to
find her sister so easily pleased.
"Of his sense and his
goodness,"
continued Elinor,
"no one can, I think, be
in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved
conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can
be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You
know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter
propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been
kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a
good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most
affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him,
have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of
literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that
his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his
imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste
delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon
acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is
certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome,
till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the
general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know
him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so.
What say you, Marianne?"?
"I shall very soon think him
handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a
brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his
heart."
Elinor started at this
declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in
speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She
believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it
to make Marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew
that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the
next —
that with them,
to wish was to hope, and to hope
was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her
sister.
"I do not attempt to
deny,"
said she,
"that I think very highly
of him — that I greatly esteem, that I like him."
Marianne here burst forth
with indignation —
"Esteem him! Like him!
Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh!
worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again,
and I will leave the room this moment."
Elinor could not help
laughing.
"Excuse me,"
said she;
"and be assured that I
meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own
feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe
them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion — the
hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.
But farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of
his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems
doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at
my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing
or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little —
scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be
considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being
independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny's
occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been
disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is
not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if
he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or
high rank."
Marianne was astonished to
find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the
truth.
"And you really are not
engaged to him!"
said she.
"Yet it certainly soon
will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I shall
not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of
improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so
indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so
far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how
delightful it would be!"
Elinor had given her real
opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in
so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a
want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of
something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to
feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to
produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more
reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the
indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him
so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance
that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her
views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was
impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from
depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and
sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the
more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few
painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship.
But, whatever might really
be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her
uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her
uncivil.
She
took the first opportunity
of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion,
talking to her so
expressively of
her brother's great expectations,
of Mrs. Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of
the danger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN;
that Mrs. Dashwood could
neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave her an
answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room,
resolving that,
whatever might be the
inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal,
her beloved Elinor
should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.
In this state of her
spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a
proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very
easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence
and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman himself, and
written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation.
He understood that
she was in need of a
dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a
cottage,
he assured her that
everything should be
done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased
her.
He earnestly pressed
her,
after giving the particulars
of the house and garden,
to come with her
daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she
might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage,
for the houses were in the
same parish,
could, by any
alteration, be made comfortable to her.
He seemed really anxious to
accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly a
style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at
a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of
her nearer connections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her
resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, in a county so
far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would
have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage
belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the
neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire;
it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her
daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved place
would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its
mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of his
kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both
letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation
before her answer were sent.
Elinor had always thought it
would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from Norland, than
immediately amongst their present acquaintance. On THAT head, therefore, it
was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of removing into
Devonshire. The house, too, as described by Sir John, was on so simple a
scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of
objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which
brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of
Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from
sending a letter of acquiescence.
Chapter 5
No sooner was her answer
dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of
announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a
house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready
for her inhabiting it. They heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said
nothing; but
her husband civilly hoped
that
she would not be
settled far from Norland.
She had great satisfaction
in replying that
she was going into Devonshire.
—
Edward turned hastily
towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which
required no explanation to her, repeated,
"Devonshire! Are you, indeed,
going there? So far from hence! And to what part of it?"
She explained the
situation.
It was within four miles northward
of Exeter.
"It is but a cottage,"
she continued,
"but I hope to see many
of my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my
friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I
will find none in accommodating them."
She concluded with a very
kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to
Edward she gave one with still greater affection. Though her late
conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at
Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest
effect on her in that point to which it principally tended. To separate
Edward and Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished
to show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how
totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.
Mr. John Dashwood told his
mother
again and again
how exceedingly sorry he was that
she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his
being of any service to her in removing her furniture.
He really felt
conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had
limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement
rendered impracticable. — The furniture was all sent around by water.
It chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a
handsome pianoforte of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages
depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs.
Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she
should have any handsome article of furniture.
Mrs. Dashwood took the house
for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and she might have immediate
possession. No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; and she
waited only for the disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her
future household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was
exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was
soon done. — The horses which were left her by her husband had been
sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of
her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her
eldest daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her
own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed.
HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and
a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had
formed their establishment at Norland.
The man and one of the maids
were sent off immediately into Devonshire, to prepare the house for their
mistress's arrival; for as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs.
Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at
Barton Park; and she relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the
house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as
her own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution
by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her
removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under
a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when her
son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be
fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate,
their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for
its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope
of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse,
that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six
months at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of
housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of
any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he
seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design
of giving money away.
In a very few weeks from the
day which brought Sir John Middleton's first letter to Norland, every thing
was so far settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her
daughters to begin their journey.
Many were the tears shed by
them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved.
"Dear, dear Norland!"
said Marianne, as she
wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being
there;
"when shall I cease to
regret you! — when learn to feel a home elsewhere! — Oh!
happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this
spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more! — And you, ye
well-known trees! — but you will continue the same. — No
leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless
although we can observe you no longer! — No; you will continue the
same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and
insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade! — But
who will remain to enjoy you?"
Chapter 6
The first part of their
journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than
tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their
interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame
their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them
cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in
pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own
house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat
wicket gate admitted them into it.
As a house, Barton Cottage,
though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was
defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window
shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with
honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the
garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about
sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four
bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been
built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was
poor and small indeed! — but the tears which recollection called forth
as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy
of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others
resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was
fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather,
they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in
recommending it to their lasting approbation.
The situation of the house
was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on
each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody.
The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a
pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more
extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the
country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley
in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched
out again between two of the steepest of them.
With the size and furniture
of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her
former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable,
yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready
money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the
apartments.
"As for the house
itself, to be sure,"
said she,
"it is too small for
our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the
present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the
spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think
about building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our
friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts
of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the
other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this,
with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and
garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the
stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though I
suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how
much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our
improvements accordingly."
In the mean time, till all
these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five
hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough
to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in
arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them
books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's
pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were
affixed to the walls of their sitting room.
In such employments as these
they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of
their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them
every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at
present be deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty.
He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young
cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and
his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival
seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of
real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living
in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to
dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that,
though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond
civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to
words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden
stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of
the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their
letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the
satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.
Lady Middleton had sent a
very civil message by him, denoting her intention
of waiting on Mrs.
Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no
inconvenience;
and as this message was
answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to
them the next day.
They were, of course, very
anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must
depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes.
Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was
handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her
manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have
been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was
long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing
that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to
say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.
Conversation however was not
wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise
precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about
six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to
by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and
age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for
him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise
of her ladyship,
who wondered at his
being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home.
On every formal visit a
child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the
present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most
like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for
of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion
of the others.
An opportunity was soon to
be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir
John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at
the park the next day.
Chapter 7
Barton Park was about half a
mile from the cottage. The ladies had passed near it in their way along the
valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of a
hill. The house was large and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style
of equal hospitality and elegance. The former was for Sir John's
gratification, the latter for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever
without some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more
company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was
necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and
outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with such as
society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a sportsman,
Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children;
and these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of
being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's
independent employments were in existence only half the time. Continual
engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of
nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave
exercise to the good breeding of his wife.
Lady Middleton piqued
herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic
arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any
of their parties. But Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real;
he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would
hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing
to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever
forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his
private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering
under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.
The arrival of a new family
in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view
he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at
Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough
to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl
could want to make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness
of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation
might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In showing
kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good
heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had all
the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only
those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of
encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own
manor.
Mrs. Dashwood and her
daughters were met at the door of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them
to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity; and as
he
attended them to the drawing
room
repeated
to the young ladies
the concern
which the same subject had
drawn from him the day before,
at being unable to get any smart
young men to meet them.
They would see,
he said,
only one gentleman there besides
himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was
neither very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the
smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so
again. He had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring
some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full
of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within
the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the
young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine.
The young ladies, as well as
their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of
the party, and wished for no more.
Mrs. Jennings, Lady
Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who
talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar. She was full of
jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many witty things on
the subject of lovers and husbands;
hoped they had not left their
hearts behind them in Sussex,
and pretended to see them
blush whether they did or not. Marianne was vexed at it for her sister's
sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore these attacks,
with an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than could arise from
such common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings's.
Colonel Brandon, the friend
of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his
friend, than Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady
Middleton's mother. He was silent and grave. His appearance however was not
unpleasing, in spite of his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret
an absolute old
bachelor,
for he was on the wrong side
of five and thirty; but though his face was not handsome, his countenance
was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike.
There was nothing in any of
the party which could recommend them as companions to the Dashwoods; but the
cold insipidity of Lady Middleton was so particularly repulsive, that in
comparison of it the gravity of Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous
mirth of Sir John and his mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton
seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy
children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an
end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne
was discovered to be musical, she was invited to play. The instrument was
unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very
well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which Lady
Middleton had brought into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had
lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had
celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account,
she had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.
Marianne's performance was
highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of every
song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song
lasted. Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any
one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked
Marianne to sing a particular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel
Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He
paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on
the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless
want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that
ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable
when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she
was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have
outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment.
She was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's
advanced state of life which humanity required.
Chapter 8
Mrs. Jennings was a widow
with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had
lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do
but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she
was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no
opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her
acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and
had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a
young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind
of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton
decisively
to pronounce that
Colonel Brandon was very much in
love with Marianne Dashwood.
She rather suspected it to be
so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so
attentively while she sang to them;
and when the visit was
returned by the Middletons' dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained
by his listening to her again.
It must be so. She was perfectly
convinced of it.
It would be an
excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome.
Mrs. Jennings had been
anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with
Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to
get a good husband for every pretty girl.
The immediate advantage to
herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless
jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the
cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it
regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at
first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew
whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she
considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years,
and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.
Mrs. Dashwood, who could not
think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he
appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs.
Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his
age.
"But at least, Mama, you
cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it
intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs.
Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY father; and if he were ever animated
enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind.
It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and
infirmity will not protect him?"
"Infirmity!"
said Elinor,
"do you call Colonel
Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much
greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as
to his having the use of his limbs!"
"Did not you hear him
complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of
declining life?"
"My dearest
child,"
said her mother,
laughing,
"at this rate you must
be in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle
that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."
"Mama, you are not doing me
justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his
friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live
twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with
matrimony."
"Perhaps,"
said Elinor,
"thirty-five and
seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together.
But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at
seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five
any objection to his marrying HER."
"A woman of seven and
twenty,"
said Marianne, after
pausing a moment,
"can never hope to feel
or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her
fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to
the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a
wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing
unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be
satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be
nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each
wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."
"It would be impossible,
I know,"
replied Elinor,
"to convince you that a
woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything
near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I
must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant
confinement of a sick chamber, merely because
he chanced to
complain
yesterday (a very cold
damp day)
of a slight
rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders."
"But he talked of
flannel waistcoats,"
said Marianne;
"and with me a flannel
waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and
every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the
feeble."
"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so
much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the
flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"
Soon after this, upon
Elinor's leaving the room,
"Mama,"
said Marianne,
"I have an alarm on the
subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward
Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet
he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this
extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?"
"Had you any idea of his
coming so soon?"
said Mrs.
Dashwood.
"I had none. On the
contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been
in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and
readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to
Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?"
"I have never mentioned it
to her, but of course she must."
"I rather think you are
mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for
the spare bedchamber,
she observed that
there was no
immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted
for some time."
"How strange this is! what
can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has
been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How
languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In
Edward's farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the
good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them
purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he
most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting
Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is
invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid
society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"
Chapter 9
The Dashwoods were now
settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the
garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and
the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms were
engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to
afford, since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on
them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of
seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding
them always employed.
Their visitors, except those
from Barton Park, were not many; for, in spite of Sir John's urgent
entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated
assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence
of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and
she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a
walk. There were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them
that were attainable. About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the
narrow winding valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as
formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks,
discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a
little of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be
better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor,
an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix
with the world, and never stirred from home.
The whole country about them
abounded in beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost
every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their
summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut
up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and
Margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial
sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which
the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was
not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book,
in spite of
Marianne's declaration
that
the day would be
lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from
their hills;
and the two girls set off
together.
They gaily ascended the
downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and
when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-westerly
wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and Elinor from
sharing such delightful sensations.
"Is there a felicity in
the world,"
said Marianne,
"superior to this?
— Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."
Margaret agreed, and they
pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for
about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their
heads, and a driving rain set full in their face. — Chagrined and
surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no
shelter was nearer than their own house. One consolation however remained
for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual
propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep
side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.
They set off. Marianne had
at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground;
and Margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily
hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.
A gentleman carrying a gun,
with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a
few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened. He put down his gun and
ran to her assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot
had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The
gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined
what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without
farther delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the
garden, the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her
directly into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not
his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
Elinor and her mother rose
up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on
him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from
his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a
manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly
handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he
been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood
would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the
influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action
which came home to her feelings.
She thanked him again and
again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited
him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet.
Mrs. Dashwood then begged
to know
to whom she was
obliged.
His name,
he replied,
was Willoughby, and
his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him
the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood.
The honour was readily
granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in
the midst of a heavy rain.
His manly beauty and more
than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and
the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received particular
spirit from his exterior attractions. — Marianne herself had seen less
of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her
face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him
after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in
all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned
her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn
for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house
with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which
particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to
him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite
village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket
was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were
pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.
Sir John called on them as
soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get
out of doors; and Marianne's accident being related to him,
he was eagerly asked
whether he knew any
gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.
"Willoughby!"
cried Sir John;
"what, is HE in the
country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask
him to dinner on Thursday."
"You know him then,"
said Mrs. Dashwood.
"Know him! to be sure I do.
Why, he is down here every year."
"And what sort of a young
man is he?"
"As good a kind of fellow as
ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder
rider in England."
"And is that all you can
say for him?"
cried Marianne,
indignantly.
"But what are his
manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents,
and genius?"
Sir John was rather
puzzled
"Upon my soul,"
said he,
"I do not know much
about him as to all THAT. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow,
and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was
she out with him today?"
But Marianne could no more
satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby's pointer, than he could
describe to her the shades of his mind.
"But who is he?"
said Elinor.
"Where does he come
from? Has he a house at Allenham?"
On this point Sir John could
give more certain intelligence; and
he told them that
Mr. Willoughby had
no property of his own in the country;
that
he resided there
only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was
related, and whose possessions he was to inherit;
adding,
"Yes, yes, he is very well
worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate
of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him
up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss
Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be
jealous, if she does not take care."
"I do not believe,"
said Mrs. Dashwood, with
a good humoured smile,
"that Mr. Willoughby
will be incommoded by the attempts of either of MY daughters towards
what you call CATCHING him. It is not an employment to which they have
been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I
am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable
young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible."
"He is as good a sort of
fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"
repeated Sir John.
"I remember last
Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o'clock till
four, without once sitting down."
"Did he indeed?"
cried Marianne with
sparkling eyes,
"and with elegance, with
spirit?"
"Yes; and he was up again at
eight to ride to covert."
"That is what I like; that
is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in
them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue."
"Aye, aye, I see how it
will be,"
said Sir John,
"I see how it will be.
You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor
Brandon."
"That is an expression,
Sir John,"
said Marianne,
warmly,
"which I particularly
dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and
'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are the most
odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their
construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed
all its ingenuity."
Sir John did not much
understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then
replied,
"Ay, you will make conquests
enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten
already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in
spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles."
Chapter 10
Marianne's
preserver,
as Margaret, with more
elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the
next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs.
Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account
of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during
the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and
domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of
their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be
convinced.
Miss Dashwood had a delicate
complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was
still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having
the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that
when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth
was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown,
but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her
features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes,
which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could
hardily be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at
first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his
assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became
collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman,
he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when
she heard him declare,
that
of music and dancing
he was passionately fond,
she gave him such a look of
approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the
rest of his stay.
It was only necessary to
mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be
silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor
reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment
of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity
of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further
examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of
books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so
rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been
insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of
such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike.
The same books, the same passages were idolized by each — or if any
difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the
force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He
acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before
his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a
long-established acquaintance.
"Well, Marianne,"
said Elinor, as soon as
he had left them,
"for ONE morning I think
you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby's
opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of
Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he
ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no
more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported,
under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You
will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will
suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second
marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask."—
"Elinor,"
cried Marianne,
"is this fair? is this
just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too
much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every
common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I
ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful — had
I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once
in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."
"My love,"
said her mother,
"you must not be
offended with Elinor — she was only in jest. I should scold her
myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your
conversation with our new friend." — Marianne was softened in a
moment.
Willoughby, on his side,
gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident
wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire
after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his
reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse
unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect
recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any
confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities,
quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was
exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not
only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused
and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her
affection beyond every thing else.
His society became gradually
her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together;
his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility
and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.
In Mrs. Dashwood's
estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and Elinor saw nothing to
censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and
peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every
occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming
and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to
the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in
slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of
caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne
could say in its support.
Marianne began now to
perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of
ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash
and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that
unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and
his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his
abilities were strong.
Her mother too, in whose
mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised, by his
prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it;
and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law
as Edward and Willoughby.
Colonel Brandon's partiality
for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first
became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their
attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the
raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was
removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly
annexed to sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe
that the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own
satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a
general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the
affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was
no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with
concern;
for what could a
silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of
five and twenty?
and as she could not even
wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him
— in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of
interest. His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared
rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural
gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and
disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man,
and she regarded him with respect and compassion.
Perhaps she pitied and
esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne,
who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed
resolved to undervalue his merits.
"Brandon is just the
kind of man,"
said Willoughby one
day, when they were talking of him together,
"whom every body speaks
well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and
nobody remembers to talk to."
"That is exactly what I
think of him,"
cried Marianne.
"Do not boast of it,
however,"
said Elinor,
"for it is injustice in
both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I
never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."
"That he is patronised
by YOU,"
replied Willoughby,
"is certainly in his
favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself.
Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as
Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of
any body else?"
"But perhaps the abuse of
such people as yourself and Marianne will make amends for the regard of Lady
Middleton and her mother. If their praise is censure, your censure may be
praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and
unjust."
"In defence of your protege
you can even be saucy."
"My protege,
as you call him, is a
sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne,
even in a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the
world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him
capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always
answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good
nature."
"That is to say,"
cried Marianne
contemptuously,
"he has told you, that
in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are
troublesome."
"He WOULD have told me so, I
doubt not, had I made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on
which I had been previously informed."
"Perhaps,"
said Willoughby,
"his observations may
have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and
palanquins."
"I may venture to say that
HIS observations have stretched much further than your candour. But why
should you dislike him?"
"I do not dislike him. I
consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every
body's good word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can
spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every
year."
"Add to which,"
cried Marianne,
"that he has neither
genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his
feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression."
"You decide on his
imperfections so much in the mass,"
replied Elinor,
"and so much on the
strength of your own imagination, that the commendation I am able to
give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. I can only pronounce him
to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and,
I believe, possessing an amiable heart."
"Miss Dashwood,"
cried Willoughby,
"you are now using me
unkindly. You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince
me against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as
you can be artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking
Colonel Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine;
he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot
persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to
you, however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other
respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an
acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the
privilege of disliking him as much as ever."
Chapter 11
Little had Mrs. Dashwood or
her daughters imagined when they first came into Devonshire, that so many
engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented
themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such
constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment.
Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement
at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put
into execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the
water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.
In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and
familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated
to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to
afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of
marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour
to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection.
Elinor could not be
surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it were less openly
shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some
self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no
real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of
sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to her not
merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to
common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their
behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their opinions.
When he was present she had
no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he
said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards,
he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If
dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the
time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to
stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made
them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame,
and seemed hardly to provoke them.
Mrs. Dashwood entered into
all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking
this excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of
a strong affection in a young and ardent mind.
This was the season of
happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond
attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more
likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms
which his society bestowed on her present home.
Elinor's happiness was not
so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their
amusements so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make amends
for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland
with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could
supply to her the conversation she missed; although the latter was an
everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness
which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated
her own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been
equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their
acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and what he
said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more
agreeable than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little
observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with
which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the
same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor
desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day
before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the
same; and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband,
provided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children
attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than
she might have experienced in sitting at home; — and so little did her
presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their
conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst
them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.
In Colonel Brandon alone, of
all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a person who could in any degree
claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give
pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration
and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover;
his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might
have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for
himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in
conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the
indifference of her sister.
Elinor's compassion for him
increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love
had already been known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which
accidently dropped from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting
down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes
were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with
a faint smile,
"Your sister, I understand,
does not approve of second attachments."
"No,"
replied Elinor,
"her opinions are all
romantic."
"Or rather, as I believe,
she considers them impossible to exist."
"I believe she does. But how
she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who
had himself two wives, I know not. A few years however will settle her
opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then
they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any
body but herself."
"This will probably be
the case,"
he replied;
"and yet there is
something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is
sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general
opinions."
"I cannot agree with you
there,"
said Elinor.
"There are inconveniences
attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of
enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have
all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a
better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her
greatest possible advantage."
After a short pause he
resumed the conversation by saying, —
"Does your sister make no
distinction in her objections against a second attachment? or is it equally
criminal in every body? Are those who have been disappointed in their first
choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of
circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their
lives?"
"Upon my word, I am not
acquainted with the minutiae of her principles. I only know that I never yet
heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being
pardonable."
"This,"
said he,
"cannot hold; but a
change, a total change of sentiments — No, no, do not desire it;
for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give
way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too
common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady
who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and
judged like her, but who from an inforced change — from a series
of unfortunate circumstances" — Here he stopt suddenly;
appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave
rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head.
The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced
Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it
was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with
the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But
Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would
have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing
established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.
Chapter 12
As Elinor and Marianne were
walking together the next morning the latter communicated a piece of news to
her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of Marianne's
imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony
of both.
Marianne told her,
with the greatest delight,
that
Willoughby had given
her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire,
and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman.
Without considering that it
was not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant,
and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive
them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister
of it in raptures.
"He intends to send his
groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,"
she added,
"and when it arrives we
will ride every day. You shall share its use with me. Imagine to
yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these
downs."
Most unwilling was she to
awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths
which attended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to
them.
As to an additional
servant, the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object
to it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the park;
as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.
Elinor then ventured
to doubt the
propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least
so lately known to her.
This was too much.
"You are mistaken,
Elinor,"
said she warmly,
"in supposing I know
very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am
much better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in
the world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that
is to determine intimacy; — it is disposition alone. Seven years
would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other,
and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself
guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than
from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived
together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been
formed."
Elinor thought it wisest to
touch that point no more. She knew her sister's temper. Opposition on so
tender a subject would only attach her the more to her own opinion. But by
an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing the
inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as
would probably be the case) she consented to this increase of establishment,
Marianne was shortly subdued; and
she promised
not to tempt her mother to
such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and
to tell Willoughby
when she saw him next, that it must be declined.
She was faithful to her
word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage, the same day, Elinor heard
her express her disappointment to him in a low voice,
on being obliged to
forego the acceptance of his present.
The reasons for this
alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make
further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern however was very
apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same
low voice, —
"But, Marianne, the horse is
still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can
claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more
lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you."
This was all overheard by
Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of
pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by her Christian name
alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as
marked a perfect agreement between them. From that moment she doubted not of
their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other
surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers
so frank, to discover it by accident.
Margaret related something
to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still clearer light.
Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by being
left some time in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had had
opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she
communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.
"Oh, Elinor!"
she cried,
"I have such a secret
to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr.
Willoughby very soon."
"You have said so,"
replied Elinor,
"almost every day since
they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a
week, I believe, before
you were certain
that
Marianne wore
his picture round her neck;
but it turned out to be
only the miniature of our great uncle."
"But indeed this is quite
another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a
lock of her hair."
"Take care, Margaret. It may
be only the hair of some great uncle of HIS."
"But, indeed, Elinor, it is
Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night
after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and
talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something
of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her
hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it
up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."
For such particulars, stated
on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she
disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had
heard and seen herself.
Margaret's sagacity was not
always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings
attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who
was
Elinor's particular
favourite,
which had been long a matter
of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and
saying,
"I must not tell, may I,
Elinor?"
This of course made every
body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She
was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not
bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most
sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red
and saying in an angry manner to Margaret,
"Remember that whatever your
conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them."
"I never had any
conjectures about it,"
replied
Margaret;
"it was you who told me
of it yourself."
This increased the mirth of
the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more.
"Oh! pray, Miss
Margaret, let us know all about it,"
said Mrs.
Jennings.
"What is the
gentleman's name?"
"I must not tell, ma'am. But
I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too."
"Yes, yes, we can guess
where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the
parish I dare say."
"No, THAT he is not. He is
of no profession at all."
"Margaret,"
said Marianne with great
warmth,
"you know that all this
is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence."
"Well, then, he is lately
dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins
with an F."
Most grateful did Elinor
feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment,
"that it rained very hard,"
though she believed the
interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her
ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was
immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of
the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of
them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to
it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the
topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the
alarm into which it had thrown her.
A party was formed this
evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve
miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without
whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad,
had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly
beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be
allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at
least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble
piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the morning's
amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be
employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party
of pleasure.
To some few of the company
it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and
that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; — and Mrs.
Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at
home.
Chapter 13
Their intended excursion to
Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was
prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was
still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all.
By ten o'clock the whole
party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning
was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were
then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were
all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to
submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be
otherwise.
While they were at breakfast
the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel
Brandon; — he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and
immediately left the room.
"What is the matter with
Brandon?"
said Sir John.
Nobody could tell.
"I hope he has had no
bad news,"
said Lady
Middleton.
"It must be something
extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table
so suddenly."
In about five minutes he
returned.
"No bad news, Colonel, I
hope;"
said Mrs. Jennings, as soon
as he entered the room.
"None at all, ma'am, I thank
you."
"Was it from Avignon? I hope
it is not to say that your sister is worse."
"No, ma'am. It came from
town, and is merely a letter of business."
"But how came the hand to
discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come,
this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it."
"My dear madam,"
said Lady
Middleton,
"recollect what you are
saying."
"Perhaps it is to tell you
that your cousin Fanny is married?"
said Mrs. Jennings, without
attending to her daughter's reproof.
"No, indeed, it is
not."
"Well, then, I know who it
is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well."
"Whom do you mean, ma'am?"
said he, colouring a
little.
"Oh! you know who I
mean."
"I am particularly
sorry, ma'am,"
said he, addressing
Lady Middleton,
"that I should receive
this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate
attendance in town."
"In town!"
cried Mrs.
Jennings.
"What can you have to
do in town at this time of year?"
"My own loss is
great,"
he continued,
"in being obliged to
leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my
presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."
What a blow upon them all
was this!
"But if you write a note
to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,"
said Marianne,
eagerly,
"will it not be
sufficient?"
He shook his head.
"We must go,"
said Sir
John.—
"It shall not be put
off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow,
Brandon, that is all."
"I wish it could be so
easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one
day!"
"If you would but let us
know what your business is,"
said Mrs. Jennings,
"we might see whether it
could be put off or not."
"You would not be six
hours later,"
said Willoughby,
"if you were to defer
your journey till our return."
"I cannot afford to lose ONE
hour." —
Elinor then heard Willoughby
say, in a low voice to Marianne,
"There are some people who
cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of
catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I
would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing."
"I have no doubt of it,"
replied Marianne.
"There is no persuading
you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old,"
said Sir John,
"when once you are
determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of
it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the
three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got
up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to
Whitwell."
Colonel Brandon again
repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at
the same time declared it to be unavoidable.
"Well, then, when will you
come back again?"
"I hope we shall see
you at Barton,"
added her
ladyship,
"as soon as you can
conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till
you return."
"You are very obliging. But
it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare
not engage for it at all."
"Oh! he must and shall
come back,"
cried Sir John.
"If he is not here by
the end of the week, I shall go after him."
"Ay, so do, Sir John,"
cried Mrs.
Jennings,
"and then perhaps you
may find out what his business is."
"I do not want to pry into
other men's concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of."
Colonel Brandon's horses
were announced.
"You do not go to town on
horseback, do you?"
added Sir John.
"No. Only to Honiton. I
shall then go post."
"Well, as you are resolved
to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your
mind."
"I assure you it is not in
my power."
He then took leave of the
whole party.
"Is there no chance of my
seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?"
"I am afraid, none at
all."
"Then I must bid you
farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do."
To Marianne, he merely bowed
and said nothing.
"Come Colonel,"
said Mrs.
Jennings,
"before you go, do let
us know what you are going about."
He wished her a good
morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and
lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth
universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be
so disappointed.
"I can guess what his
business is, however,"
said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.
"Can you,
ma'am?"
said almost every
body.
"Yes; it is about Miss
Williams, I am sure."
"And who is Miss
Williams?"
asked Marianne.
"What! do not you know
who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She
is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a very near relation. We will
not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies."
Then, lowering her voice
a little, she said to Elinor,
"She is his natural
daughter."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, yes; and as like him as
she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his
fortune."
When Sir John returned,
he joined most heartily in
the general regret on so unfortunate an event;
concluding
however by observing,
that
as they were all got
together, they must do something by way of being happy;
and after some consultation
it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell,
they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the
country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and
Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through
the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of
them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return
of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only
in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on
the downs.
It was settled that there
should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely
merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the
pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed
with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two
elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had
not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said
to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear,
"I have found you out in
spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."
Marianne coloured, and
replied very hastily,
"Where, pray?"—
"Did not you know,"
said Willoughby,
"that we had been out in
my curricle?"
"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I
know that very well, and I was determined to find out WHERE you had been to.
— I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne. It is a very large one, I
know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for
it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago."
Marianne turned away in
great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in
her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own
woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method
been informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time
there in walking about the garden and going all over the house.
Elinor could hardly believe
this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose,
or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with
whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance.
As soon as they left the
dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise
when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was
perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it.
"Why should you imagine,
Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not
it what you have often wished to do yourself?"
"Yes, Marianne, but I would
not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with no other companion than Mr.
Willoughby."
"Mr. Willoughby however is
the only person who can have a right to shew that house; and as he went in
an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never
spent a pleasanter morning in my life."
"I am afraid,"
replied Elinor,
"that the pleasantness of
an employment does not always evince its propriety."
"On the contrary, nothing
can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been any real
impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time,
for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I
could have had no pleasure."
"But, my dear Marianne, as it
has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now
begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?"
"If the impertinent remarks
of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all
offending every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more than I
should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong
in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one
day be Mr. Willoughby's, and —"
"If they were one day to be
your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in what you have
done."
She blushed at this hint;
but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes' interval
of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good
humour,
"Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS
rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted
particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you.
— There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice
comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be
delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one side
you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging
wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and,
beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired. I did
not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the
furniture, — but if it were newly fitted up — a couple of
hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest
summer-rooms in England."
Could Elinor have listened
to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every
room in the house with equal delight.
Chapter 14
The sudden termination of
Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in concealing its
cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or
three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very
lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their
acquaintance.
She wondered,
with little
intermission
what could be the
reason of it;
was sure there must be some
bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen
him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all.
"Something very
melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,"
said she.
"I could see it in his
face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at
Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his
brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been
sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether
it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is
about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked
so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in
the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly.
I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very
likely he should be distressed in his circumstances NOW, for he is a
very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this
time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon,
and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very
like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and
a good wife into the bargain."
So wondered, so talked Mrs.
Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming
equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in
the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going
so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for
besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting
amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of.
It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby
on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them
all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and
more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly
acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each
other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
She could easily conceive
that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby
was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had
been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at
an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself
often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy
maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed
nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to
their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind
of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her
making any inquiry of Marianne.
Nothing could be more
expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby's behaviour. To
Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart
could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention
of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him
as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and
if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which
called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the
rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his
favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular,
about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more
than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him;
and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening to mention her design of improving the
cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which
affection had established as perfect with him.
"What!"
he exclaimed
—
"Improve this dear
cottage! No. THAT I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to
its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded."
"Do not be alarmed,"
said Miss
Dashwood,
"nothing of the kind will be
done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."
"I am heartily glad of
it,"
he cried.
"May she always be poor,
if she can employ her riches no better."
"Thank you, Willoughby. But
you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local
attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in
the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I
make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by
than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so
attached to this place as to see no defect in it?"
"I am,"
said he.
"To me it is faultless.
Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness
is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down,
and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage."
"With dark narrow stairs and
a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,"
said Elinor.
"Yes,"
cried he in the same
eager tone,
"with all and every
thing belonging to it; — in no one convenience or INconvenience
about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then
only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have
been at Barton."
"I flatter myself,"
replied Elinor,
"that even under the
disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter
find your own house as faultless as you now do this."
"There certainly are
circumstances,"
said Willoughby,
"which might greatly
endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my
affection, which no other can possibly share."
Mrs. Dashwood looked with
pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on
Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him.
"How often did I wish,"
added he,
"when I was at Allenham
this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never
passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving
that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very
first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the
country, would be that
Barton cottage
was taken:
and I felt an immediate
satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of
prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account
for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?"
speaking to her in a
lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said,
"And yet this house you
would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by
imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance
first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by
us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,
and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has
hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort
than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could
possibly afford."
Mrs. Dashwood again assured
him that
no alteration of the
kind should be attempted.
"You are a good
woman,"
he warmly
replied.
"Your promise makes me
easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me
that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever
find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will
always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging
to you so dear to me."
The promise was readily
given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared
at once his affection and happiness.
"Shall we see you
tomorrow to dinner?"
said Mrs. Dashwood,
when he was leaving them.
"I do not ask you to
come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on Lady
Middleton."
He engaged to be with them
by four o'clock.
Chapter 15
Mrs. Dashwood's visit to
Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with
her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party, under some
trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise
had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they
were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.
On their return from the
park they found Willoughby's curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage,
and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it
was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no
foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than
Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction,
with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just
quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the
mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in,
and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion which
over-powered Marianne.
"Is anything the matter
with her?"
cried Mrs. Dashwood as
she entered —
"is she ill?"
"I hope not,"
he replied, trying to
look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added,
"It is I who may rather
expect to be ill — for I am now suffering under a very heavy
disappointment!"
"Disappointment?"
"Yes, for I am unable to
keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the
privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business
to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of
Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of
you."
"To London! — and are
you going this morning?"
"Almost this moment."
"This is very unfortunate.
But Mrs. Smith must be obliged; — and her business will not detain you
from us long I hope."
He coloured as he
replied,
"You are very kind, but I
have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs.
Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth."
"And is Mrs. Smith your only
friend? Is Allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be
welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can you wait for an invitation here?"
His colour increased; and
with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied,
"You are too good."
Mrs. Dashwood looked at
Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal amazement. For a few moments every
one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.
"I have only to add, my dear
Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you will always be welcome; for I will
not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge how far
THAT might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more
disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination."
"My engagements at
present,"
replied Willoughby,
confusedly,
"are of such a nature
— that — I dare not flatter myself"—
He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was
too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken
by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile,
"It is folly to linger in
this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends
whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy."
He then hastily took leave
of them all and left the room. They saw him step into his carriage, and in a
minute it was out of sight.
Mrs. Dashwood felt too much
for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the
concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned.
Elinor's uneasiness was at
least equal to her mother's. She thought of what had just passed with
anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour in taking leave of them, his
embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his
unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a
lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that
no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some
unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister; — the
distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious
quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered what
Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
But whatever might be the
particulars of their separation, her sister's affliction was indubitable;
and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which
Marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but
feeding and encouraging as a duty.
In about half an hour her
mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not
uncheerful.
"Our dear Willoughby is
now some miles from Barton, Elinor,"
said she, as she sat
down to work,
"and with how heavy a
heart does he travel?"
"It is all very strange. So
suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work of a moment. And last night he
was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate? And now, after only ten
minutes notice — Gone too without intending to return! —
Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not
speak, he did not behave like himself. YOU must have seen the difference as
well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have
shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?"—
"It was not inclination that
he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see THAT. He had not the power of
accepting it. I have thought it all over I assure you, and I can perfectly
account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to
you."
"Can you, indeed!"
"Yes. I have explained it to
myself in the most satisfactory way; — but you, Elinor, who love to
doubt where you can — it will not satisfy YOU, I know; but you shall
not talk ME out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects
his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other
views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away; — and
that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an
excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is,
moreover, aware that she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not
therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he
feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her
schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I
know, that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil,
unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as
satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?"
"Nothing, for you have
anticipated my answer."
"Then you would have told
me, that it might or might not have happened. Oh, Elinor, how
incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit
than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt for
poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think
him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his
usual behaviour has shewn. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence,
or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to
be accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the
man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to
think ill of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves,
though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you
suspect him of?"
"I can hardly tell myself.
But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such
an alteration as we just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, in
what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him,
and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may
undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope
that he has. But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them
at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its
being practiced by him."
"Do not blame him, however,
for departing from his character, where the deviation is necessary. But you
really do admit the justice of what I have said in his defence? — I am
happy — and he is acquitted."
"Not entirely. It may be
proper to conceal their engagement (if they ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith
— and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby
to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for their
concealing it from us."
"Concealing it from us! my
dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is
strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for
incautiousness."
"I want no proof of their
affection,"
said Elinor;
"but of their engagement
I do."
"I am perfectly satisfied of
both."
"Yet not a syllable has been
said to you on the subject, by either of them."
"I have not wanted syllables
where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and
to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and
considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of
the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not
my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and
affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement?
How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that
Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her,
and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection;
— that they should part without a mutual exchange of
confidence?"
"I confess,"
replied Elinor,
"that every circumstance
except ONE is in favour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total
silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every
other."
"How strange this is! You
must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly
passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are
together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this
time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?"
"No, I cannot think that. He
must and does love her I am sure."
"But with a strange kind of
tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of
the future, as you attribute to him."
"You must remember, my dear
mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my
doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be
entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be
removed."
"A mighty concession indeed!
If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to
be married. Ungracious girl! But I require no such proof. Nothing in my
opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all
has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's
wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not
a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to
create alarm? can he be deceitful?"
"I hope not, I believe
not,"
cried Elinor.
"I love Willoughby,
sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more
painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not
encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
manners this morning; — he did not speak like himself, and did not
return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained
by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just
parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith,
to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by
declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some
time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our
family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a
plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his
honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character;
— but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct on so
illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a
deviation from what I may think right and consistent."
"You speak very properly.
Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though WE have not
known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has
ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act
independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should
leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the
case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their
marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as
it can be observed, may now be very advisable."
They were interrupted by the
entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the
representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and
hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne
till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table
without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if
her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks
of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her
mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree
of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the
room.
This violent oppression of
spirits continued the whole evening. She was without any power, because she
was without any desire of command over herself. The slightest mention of
anything relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an instant; and though
her family were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible
for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her
feelings connected with him.
Chapter 16
Marianne would have thought
herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night
after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her
family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more
need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made
such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was
awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with
a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent
enough!
When breakfast was over she
walked out by herself, and wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging
the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for
the chief of the morning.
The evening passed off in
the equal indulgence of feeling. She played over every favourite song that
she had been used to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices had
been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of
music that he had written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no
farther sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day
applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and
crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books too, as
well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past
and present was certain of giving. She read nothing but what they had been
used to read together.
Such violence of affliction
indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk within a few days into a
calmer melancholy; but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her
solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions
of sorrow as lively as ever.
No letter from Willoughby
came; and none seemed expected by Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and
Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations
whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself.
"Remember, Elinor,"
said she,
"how very often Sir John
fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We
have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must
acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondence were
to pass through Sir John's hands."
Elinor could not deny the
truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their
silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion
so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly
removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her
mother.
"Why do you not ask
Marianne at once,"
said she,
"whether she is or she is
not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the
natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve,
and to you more especially."
"I would not ask such a
question for the world. Supposing it possible that they are not engaged,
what distress would not such an enquiry inflict! At any rate it would be
most ungenerous. I should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing
from her a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to
any one. I know Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that
I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances
make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the
confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would
prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."
Elinor thought this
generosity overstrained, considering her sister's youth, and urged the
matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common care, common prudence,
were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy.
It was several days before
Willoughby's name was mentioned before Marianne by any of her family; Sir
John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms added
pain to many a painful hour; — but one evening, Mrs. Dashwood,
accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare, exclaimed,
"We have never finished
Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away before we could get through
it. We will put it by, that when he comes again...But it may be months,
perhaps, before THAT happens."
"Months!"
cried Marianne, with
strong surprise.
"No — nor many
weeks."
Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for
what she had said; but it gave Elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply from
Marianne so expressive of confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his
intentions.
One morning, about a week
after his leaving the country, Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters
in their usual walk, instead of wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had
carefully avoided every companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to
walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked
of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be
found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. They
walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for
Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining
one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley,
where the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long
stretch of the road which they had travelled on first coming to Barton, lay
before them; and on reaching that point, they stopped to look around them,
and examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the
cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of their
walks before.
Amongst the objects in the
scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback
riding towards them. In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a
gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed,
"It is he; it is indeed;
— I know it is!"—
and was hastening to meet
him, when Elinor cried out,
"Indeed, Marianne, I think
you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The person is not tall enough for
him, and has not his air."
"He has, he has,"
cried Marianne,
"I am sure he has. His
air, his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."
She walked eagerly on as she
spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from particularity, as she felt almost
certain of its not being Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with
her. They were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked
again; her heart sunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was
hurrying back, when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain
her; a third, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging
her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward
Ferrars.
He was the only person in
the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being Willoughby; the
only one who could have gained a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears
to smile on HIM, and in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own
disappointment.
He dismounted, and giving
his horse to his servant, walked back with them to Barton, whither he was
purposely coming to visit them.
He was welcomed by them all
with great cordiality, but especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of
regard in her reception of him than even Elinor herself. To Marianne,
indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of
that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their
mutual behaviour. On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a
deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He
was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked
neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne saw
and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a dislike of
Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back
her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently
striking to those of his brother elect.
After a short silence which
succeeded the first surprise and enquiries of meeting,
Marianne asked
Edward
if he came directly
from London.
No, he had been in
Devonshire a fortnight.
"A fortnight!"
she repeated, surprised at
his being so long in the same county with Elinor without seeing her
before.
He looked rather distressed
as he added, that he had been staying with some friends near
Plymouth.
"Have you been lately in
Sussex?"
said Elinor.
"I was at Norland about a
month ago."
"And how does dear, dear
Norland look?"
cried Marianne.
"Dear, dear Norland,"
said Elinor,
"probably looks much as
it always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly
covered with dead leaves."
"Oh,"
cried Marianne,
"with what transporting
sensation have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I
walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What
feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there
is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept
hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight."
"It is not every one,"
said Elinor,
"who has your passion for
dead leaves."
"No; my feelings are
not often shared, not often understood. But SOMETIMES they are."
— As she said
this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments; — but rousing
herself again,
"Now, Edward,"
said she, calling his
attention to the prospect,
"here is Barton valley.
Look up to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you
ever see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods
and plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath
that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."
"It is a beautiful
country,"
he replied;
"but these bottoms must
be dirty in winter."
"How can you think of dirt,
with such objects before you?"
"Because,"
replied he,
smiling,
"among the rest of the
objects before me, I see a very dirty lane."
"How strange!"
said Marianne to herself as
she walked on.
"Have you an agreeable
neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant people?"
"No, not all,"
answered
Marianne;
"we could not be more
unfortunately situated."
"Marianne,"
cried her
sister,
"how can you say so? How
can you be so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars;
and towards us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot,
Marianne, how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"
"No,"
said Marianne, in a low
voice,
"nor how many painful
moments."
Elinor took no notice of
this; and directing her attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support
something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence,
its conveniences, &c. extorting from him occasional questions and
remarks. His coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she was vexed and
half angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by the past
rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment or
displeasure, and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from the
family connection.
Chapter 17
Mrs. Dashwood was surprised
only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her
opinion, of all things the most natural. Her joy and expression of regard
long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest welcome from her; and
shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a reception. They
had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were quite
overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not
very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the
passion to her; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become
more like himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and
his interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family
perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality
in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish
parents.
"What are Mrs. Ferrars's
views for you at present, Edward?"
said she, when dinner
was over and they had drawn round the fire;
"are you still to be a
great orator in spite of yourself?"
"No. I hope my mother is now
convinced that I have no more talents than inclination for a public
life!"
"But how is your fame to be
established? for famous you must be to satisfy all your family; and with no
inclination for expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no
assurance, you may find it a difficult matter."
"I shall not attempt it. I
have no wish to be distinguished; and have every reason to hope I never
shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence."
"You have no ambition, I
well know. Your wishes are all moderate."
"As moderate as those of the
rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well as every body else to be
perfectly happy; but, like every body else it must be in my own way.
Greatness will not make me so."
"Strange that it would!"
cried Marianne.
"What have wealth or
grandeur to do with happiness?"
"Grandeur has but
little,"
said Elinor,
"but wealth has much to
do with it."
"Elinor, for shame!"
said Marianne,
"money can only give
happiness where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence,
it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is
concerned."
"Perhaps,"
said Elinor,
smiling,
"we may come to the same
point. YOUR competence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say;
and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every
kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble
than mine. Come, what is your competence?"
"About eighteen hundred or
two thousand a year; not more than THAT."
Elinor laughed.
"TWO thousand a year! ONE is
my wealth! I guessed how it would end."
"And yet two thousand
a-year is a very moderate income,"
said Marianne.
"A family cannot well be
maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A
proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters,
cannot be supported on less."
Elinor smiled again, to hear
her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at Combe
Magna.
"Hunters!" repeated Edward
—"but why must
you have hunters? Every body does not hunt."
Marianne coloured as she
replied,
"But most people do."
"I wish,"
said Margaret, striking
out a novel thought,
"that somebody would
give us all a large fortune apiece!"
"Oh that they would!"
cried Marianne, her eyes
sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such
imaginary happiness.
"We are all unanimous in
that wish, I suppose,"
said Elinor,
"in spite of the
insufficiency of wealth."
"Oh dear!"
cried Margaret,
"how happy I should be!
I wonder what I should do with it!"
Marianne looked as if she
had no doubt on that point.
"I should be puzzled to
spend so large a fortune myself,"
said Mrs. Dashwood,
"if my children were all
to be rich my help."
"You must begin your
improvements on this house,"
observed Elinor,
"and your difficulties
will soon vanish."
"What magnificent orders
would travel from this family to London,"
said Edward,
"in such an event! What a
happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss
Dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit
to be sent you — and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of
soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And
books! — Thomson, Cowper, Scott — she would buy them all
over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent
their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that
tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne?
Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to shew you that I had
not forgot our old disputes."
"I love to be reminded of
the past, Edward — whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall
it — and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are
very right in supposing how my money would be spent — some of it, at
least — my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my
collection of music and books."
"And the bulk of your fortune
would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs."
"No, Edward, I should have
something else to do with it."
"Perhaps, then, you would
bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your
favourite maxim,
that
no one can ever be
in love more than once in their life —
your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?"
"Undoubtedly. At my time of
life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or
hear any thing to change them."
"Marianne is as steadfast
as ever, you see,"
said Elinor,
"she is not at all
altered."
"She is only grown a little
more grave than she was."
"Nay, Edward,"
said Marianne,
"you need not reproach
me. You are not very gay yourself."
"Why should you think
so!"
replied he, with a
sigh.
"But gaiety never was a
part of MY character."
"Nor do I think it a part
of Marianne's,"
said Elinor;
"I should hardly call her
a lively girl — she is very earnest, very eager in all she does
— sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation —
but she is not often really merry."
"I believe you are
right,"
he replied,
"and yet I have always
set her down as a lively girl."
"I have frequently
detected myself in such kind of mistakes,"
said Elinor,
"in a total
misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so
much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and
I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one
is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what
other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and
judge."
"But I thought it was
right, Elinor,"
said Marianne,
"to be guided wholly by
the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us
merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been
your doctrine, I am sure."
"No, Marianne, never. My
doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have
ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my
meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our
acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you
to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious
matters?"
"You have not been able
to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"
said Edward to
Elinor,
"Do you gain no
ground?"
"Quite the contrary,"
replied Elinor, looking
expressively at Marianne.
"My judgment,"
he returned,
"is all on your side of
the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.
I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem
negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have
frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond
of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of
gentility!"
"Marianne has not shyness to
excuse any inattention of hers,"
said Elinor.
"She knows her own worth
too well for false shame,"
replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the
effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could
persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I
should not be shy."
"But you would still be
reserved,"
said Marianne,
"and that is
worse."
Edward started
—
"Reserved! Am I reserved,
Marianne?"
"Yes, very."
"I do not understand
you,"
replied he,
colouring.
"Reserved! — how,
in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"
Elinor looked surprised at
his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him,
"Do not you know my sister
well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every
one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
rapturously as herself?"
Edward made no answer. His
gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent —
and he sat for some time silent and dull.
Chapter 18
Elinor saw, with great
uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very
partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.
It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that
he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no
doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed
very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted
one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.
He joined her and Marianne
in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and
Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she
could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs
she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see
Edward himself come out.
"I am going into the
village to see my horses,"
said he,
"as you are not yet ready
for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."
Edward returned to them with
fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he
had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a
much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the
whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured
Marianne's attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration
of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had
particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying,
"You must not enquire too
far, Marianne — remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I
shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to
particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces
strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant
objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft
medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I
can honestly give. I call it a very fine country — the hills are
steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable
and snug — with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered
here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it
unites beauty with utility — and I dare say it is a picturesque one
too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and
promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know
nothing of the picturesque."
"I am afraid it is but
too true,"
said Marianne;
"but why should you
boast of it?"
"I suspect,"
said Elinor,
"that to avoid one kind
of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many
people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they
really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater
indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he
possesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his
own."
"It is very true,"
said Marianne,
"that admiration of
landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel
and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first
defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and
sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no
language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all
sense and meaning."
"I am convinced,"
said Edward,
"that you really feel all
the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in
return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like
a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like
crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are
tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered
cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I
have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower — and a
troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti
in the world."
Marianne looked with
amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister. Elinor only
laughed.
The subject was continued no
farther; and Marianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object
suddenly engaged her attention. She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his
tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a
ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his
fingers.
"I never saw you wear a
ring before, Edward,"
she cried.
"Is that Fanny's hair?
I remember her promising to give you some. But I should have thought her
hair had been darker."
Marianne spoke
inconsiderately what she really felt — but when she saw how much she
had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be
surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at
Elinor, replied,
"Yes; it is my sister's
hair. The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know."
Elinor had met his eye, and
looked conscious likewise. That the hair was her own, she instantaneously
felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the only difference in their conclusions
was, that what Marianne considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor
was conscious must have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown
to herself. She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront,
and affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of
something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every
opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt,
that it was exactly the shade of her own.
Edward's embarrassment
lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of mind still more settled. He
was particularly grave the whole morning. Marianne severely censured herself
for what she had said; but her own forgiveness might have been more speedy,
had she known how little offence it had given her sister.
Before the middle of the
day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, who, having heard of
the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came to take a survey of the
guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in
discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a
future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the
newness of their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being
immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very
significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's
instructions, extended.
Sir John never came to the
Dashwoods without either inviting them to dine at the park the next day, or
to drink tea with them that evening. On the present occasion, for the better
entertainment of their visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself
bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both.
"You MUST drink tea with
us to night,"
said he,
"for we shall be quite
alone — and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we
shall be a large party."
Mrs. Jennings enforced the
necessity.
"And who knows but you
may raise a dance,"
said she.
"And that will tempt
YOU, Miss Marianne."
"A dance!"
cried Marianne.
"Impossible! Who is to
dance?"
"Who! why yourselves, and
the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure. — What! you thought nobody could
dance because a certain person that shall be nameless is gone!"
"I wish with all my
soul,"
cried Sir John,
"that Willoughby were
among us again."
This, and Marianne's
blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.
"And who is
Willoughby?"
said he, in a low voice, to
Miss Dashwood, by whom he was sitting.
She gave him a brief reply.
Marianne's countenance was more communicative. Edward saw enough to
comprehend, not only the meaning of others, but such of Marianne's
expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their visitors left them, he
went immediately round her, and said, in a whisper,
"I have been guessing. Shall
I tell you my guess?"
"What do you mean?"
"Shall I tell you."
"Certainly."
"Well then; I guess that Mr.
Willoughby hunts."
Marianne was surprised and
confused, yet she could not help smiling at the quiet archness of his
manner, and after a moment's silence, said,
"Oh, Edward! How can you?
— But the time will come I hope...I am sure you will like him."
I do not doubt it,"
replied he, rather
astonished at her earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a
joke for the good of her acquaintance in general, founded only on a
something or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have
ventured to mention it.
Chapter 19
Edward remained a week at
the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but,
as if he were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone
when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height. His spirits, during
the last two or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved
— he grew more and more partial to the house and environs —
never spoke of going away without a sigh — declared his time to be
wholly disengaged — even doubted to what place he should go when he
left them — but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so
quickly — he could hardly believe it to be gone. He said so
repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings
and gave the lie to his actions.
He had no pleasure at
Norland; he detested being in town;
but either to Norland or
London, he must go.
He valued their
kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with
them.
Yet, he must leave them at
the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any
restraint on his time.
Elinor placed all that was
astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy
for her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to
her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of her
son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased
with his uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the
whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous
qualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for
Willoughby's service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and
of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence,
and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's disposition and designs. The
shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them,
originated in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity
of temporizing with his mother. The old well-established grievance of duty
against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. She would have
been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was
to yield, — when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at
liberty to be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for
comfort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the
remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from him
while at Barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it which he
constantly wore round his finger.
"I think, Edward,"
said Mrs. Dashwood, as
they were at breakfast the last morning,
"you would be a happier
man if you had any profession to engage your time and give an interest
to your plans and actions. Some inconvenience to your friends, indeed,
might result from it — you would not be able to give them so much
of your time. But
(with a smile)
you would be materially
benefited in one particular at least — you would know where to go
when you left them."
"I do assure you,"
he replied,
"that I have long
thought on this point, as you think now. It has been, and is, and
probably will always be a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no
necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employment, or
afford me any thing like independence. But unfortunately my own nicety,
and the nicety of my friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless
being. We never could agree in our choice of a profession. I always
preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for
my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart
for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who
had chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first
circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no
inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which
my family approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I
was too old when the subject was first started to enter it — and,
at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at
all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my
back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most
advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in
general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations
of his friends to do nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have
been properly idle ever since."
"The consequence of
which, I suppose, will be,"
said Mrs.
Dashwood,
"since leisure has not
promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be brought up to as
many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades as
Columella's."
"They will be brought
up,"
said he, in a serious
accent,
"to be as unlike myself
as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in every
thing."
"Come, come; this is all an
effusion of immediate want of spirits, Edward. You are in a melancholy
humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy. But remember
that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every body at times,
whatever be their education or state. Know your own happiness. You want
nothing but patience — or give it a more fascinating name, call it
hope. Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so
anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her
happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How
much may not a few months do?"
"I think,"
replied Edward,
"that I may defy many
months to produce any good to me."
This desponding turn of
mind, though it could not be communicated to Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional
pain to them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left an
uncomfortable impression on Elinor's feelings especially, which required
some trouble and time to subdue. But as it was her determination to subdue
it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffer more than what all her
family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so
judiciously employed by Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix
her sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude and idleness. Their means were as
different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of
each.
Elinor sat down to her
drawing-table as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself
the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared
to interest herself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the
family, and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at
least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were
spared much solicitude on her account.
Such behaviour as this, so
exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to Marianne,
than her own had seemed faulty to her. The business of self-command she
settled very easily; —
with strong
affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
That her sister's affections
WERE calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of
the strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and
respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.
Without shutting herself up
from her family, or leaving the house in determined solitude to avoid them,
or lying awake the whole night to indulge meditation, Elinor found every day
afforded her leisure enough to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour,
in every possible variety which the different state of her spirits at
different times could produce, — with tenderness, pity, approbation,
censure, and doubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the
absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their
employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of
solitude was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts
could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so
interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her
memory, her reflection, and her fancy.
From a reverie of this kind,
as she sat at her drawing-table, she was roused one morning, soon after
Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of company. She happened to be quite
alone. The closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the green court in
front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party
walking up to the door. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and
Mrs. Jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were
quite unknown to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir
John perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of
knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the
casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and
the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being
heard at the other.
"Well,"
said he,
"we have brought you
some strangers. How do you like them?"
"Hush! they will hear
you."
"Never mind if they do. It
is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you. You may see
her if you look this way."
As Elinor was certain of
seeing her in a couple of minutes, without taking that liberty, she begged
to be excused.
"Where is Marianne? Has she
run away because we are come? I see her instrument is open."
"She is walking, I
believe."
They were now joined by Mrs.
Jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was opened
before she told HER story. She came hallooing to the window,
"How do you do, my dear? How
does Mrs. Dashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will
be glad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son and
daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I thought I
heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never
entered my head that it could be them. I thought of nothing but whether it
might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so I said to Sir John, I do
think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come back again"
—
Elinor was obliged to turn
from her, in the middle of her story, to receive the rest of the party; Lady
Middleton introduced the two strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down
stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while
Mrs. Jennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into the
parlour, attended by Sir John.
Mrs. Palmer was several
years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally unlike her in every respect.
She was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest expression
of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her manners were by no means so
elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing. She came in
with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and
smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five
or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but
of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a look
of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word,
and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a newspaper
from the table, and continued to read it as long as he staid.
Mrs. Palmer, on the
contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly
civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and
every thing in it burst forth.
"Well! what a delightful
room this is! I never saw anything so charming! Only think, Mama, how it
is improved since I was here last! I always thought it such a sweet
place, ma'am!
(turning to Mrs.
Dashwood)
but you have made it so
charming! Only look, sister, how delightful every thing is! How I should
like such a house for myself! Should not you, Mr. Palmer?"
Mr. Palmer made her no
answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the newspaper.
"Mr. Palmer does not
hear me,"
said she, laughing;
"he never does
sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"
This was quite a new idea to
Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to find wit in the inattention of any
one, and could not help looking with surprise at them both.
Mrs. Jennings, in the
meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and continued her account of their
surprise, the evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till
every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily at the recollection of
their astonishment, and
every body agreed,
two or three times over,
that
it had been quite an
agreeable surprise.
"You may believe how
glad we all were to see them,"
added Mrs. Jennings,
leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice as if she
meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different
sides of the room;
"but, however, I can't
help wishing they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long
journey of it, for they came all round by London upon account of some
business, for you know
(nodding significantly
and pointing to her daughter)
it was wrong in her
situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she
would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!"
Mrs. Palmer
laughed, and
said
it would not do her
any harm.
"She expects to be confined
in February,"
continued Mrs.
Jennings.
Lady Middleton could no
longer endure such a conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask Mr.
Palmer
if there was any
news in the paper.
"No, none at all,"
he replied, and read
on.
"Here comes
Marianne,"
cried Sir John.
"Now, Palmer, you shall
see a monstrous pretty girl."
He immediately went into the
passage, opened the front door, and ushered her in himself.
Mrs. Jennings asked
her,
as soon as she
appeared,
if she had not been
to Allenham;
and Mrs. Palmer laughed so
heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up
on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to
his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which hung
round the room. She got up to examine them.
"Oh! dear, how beautiful
these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look, mama, how sweet! I declare
they are quite charming; I could look at them for ever."
And then sitting down
again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the
room.
When Lady Middleton rose to
go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself
and looked at them all around.
"My love, have you been
asleep?"
said his wife,
laughing.
He
made her no answer; and
only
observed,
after again examining the
room,
that
it was very low
pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
He then made his bow, and
departed with the rest.
Sir John had been very
urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who
did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage,
absolutely refused on her own account;
her daughters might
do as they pleased.
But they had no curiosity to
see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure
from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse
themselves;
the weather was
uncertain, and not likely to be good.
But Sir John would not be
satisfied —
the carriage should
be sent for them and they must come.
Lady Middleton too, though
she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer
joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party;
and the young ladies were obliged to yield.
"Why should they ask
us?"
said Marianne, as soon
as they were gone.
"The rent of this
cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are
to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or
with us."
"They mean no less to be
civil and kind to us now,"
said Elinor,
"by these frequent
invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago.
The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and
dull. We must look for the change elsewhere."
Chapter 20
As the Miss Dashwoods
entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer
came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before.
She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great
delight in seeing them again.
"I am so glad to see
you!"
said she, seating
herself between Elinor and Marianne,
"for it is so bad a day
I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we
go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week
you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew
nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then
Mr. Palmer asked
me
if I would go
with him to Barton.
He is so droll! He never
tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we
shall meet again in town very soon, I hope."
They were obliged to put an
end to such an expectation.
"Not go to town!"
cried Mrs. Palmer, with
a laugh,
"I shall be quite
disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for
you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am
sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am
confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public."
They thanked her; but were
obliged to resist all her entreaties.
"Oh, my love,"
cried Mrs. Palmer to her
husband, who just then entered the room —
"you must help me to
persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter."
Her love made no answer; and
after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the
weather.
"How horrid all this is!"
said he.
"Such weather makes every
thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within
doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance.
What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his
house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the
weather."
The rest of the company soon
dropt in.
"I am afraid, Miss
Marianne,"
said Sir John,
"you have not been able
to take your usual walk to Allenham today."
Marianne looked very grave
and said nothing.
"Oh, don't be so sly
before us,"
said Mrs. Palmer;
"for we know all about
it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is
extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country,
you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say."
"Much nearer thirty,"
said her husband.
"Ah, well! there is not much
difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty
place."
"As vile a spot as I ever saw
in my life,"
said Mr. Palmer.
Marianne remained perfectly
silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was
said.
"Is it very
ugly?"
continued Mrs. Palmer
—
"then it must be some
other place that is so pretty I suppose."
When they were seated in the
dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all
together.
"My dear,"
said he to his
lady,
"it is very provoking
that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us
today?"
"Did not I tell you, Sir
John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They
dined with us last."
"You and I, Sir John,"
said Mrs.
Jennings,
"should not stand upon
such ceremony."
"Then you would be very
ill-bred,"
cried Mr. Palmer.
"My love you contradict
every body,"
said his wife with her
usual laugh.
"Do you know that you
are quite rude?"
"I did not know I
contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred."
"Ay, you may abuse me as
you please,"
said the good-natured
old lady,
"you have taken
Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have
the whip hand of you."
Charlotte
laughed heartily to think
that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly
said,
she did not care how
cross he was to her, as they must live together.
It was impossible for any
one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than
Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her
husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly
diverted.
"Mr. Palmer is so
droll!"
said she, in a whisper,
to Elinor.
"He is always out of
humour."
Elinor was not inclined,
after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and
unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear.
His temper might
perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that
through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a
very silly woman, —
but she knew that
this kind of blunder
was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. — It
was rather a wish of distinction,
she believed,
which produced his
contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing
before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The
motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might
succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to
attach any one to him except his wife.
"Oh, my dear Miss
Dashwood,"
said Mrs. Palmer soon
afterwards,
"I have got such a
favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time
at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, — and come while the
Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be
quite delightful! — My love,"
applying to her
husband,
"don't you long to have
the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?"
"Certainly,"
he replied, with a sneer
—
"I came into Devonshire
with no other view."
"There now,"
—
said his lady,
"you see Mr. Palmer
expects you; so you cannot refuse to come."
They both eagerly and
resolutely declined her invitation.
"But indeed you must and
shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be
with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet
place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going
about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came
to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor
fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body
like him."
Elinor could hardly keep her
countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation.
"How charming it will
be,"
said Charlotte,
"when he is in
Parliament! — won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so
ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. —
But do you know,
he says,
he will never
frank for me?
He declares
he won't.
Don't you, Mr.
Palmer?"
Mr. Palmer took no notice of
her.
"He cannot bear writing,
you know,"
she continued
—
"he says
it is quite
shocking."
"No,"
said he,
"I never said any thing
so irrational. Don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me."
"There now; you see how
droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won't speak to me
for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll
— all about any thing in the world."
She surprised Elinor very
much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did
not like Mr. Palmer excessively.
"Certainly,"
said Elinor;
"he seems very
agreeable."
"Well — I am so glad
you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is
excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can't
think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland. — I
can't imagine why you should object to it."
Elinor was again obliged to
decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her
entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county,
Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of
Willoughby's general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons'
partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such
a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from
Marianne.
She began by
inquiring
if they saw much of
Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted
with him.
"Oh dear, yes; I know
him extremely well,"
replied Mrs.
Palmer; — "Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him
for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at
Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; —
but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have
seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very
unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is
very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do
not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you
know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about
him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it,
for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."
"Upon my word,"
replied Elinor,
"you know much more of
the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a
match."
"Don't pretend to deny it,
because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it
in my way through town."
"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"
"Upon my honour I did.
— I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we
left town, and he told me of it directly."
"You surprise me very much.
Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such
intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were
true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do."
"But I do assure you it was
so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he
turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and
sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is
a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are
very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby
of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have
been in Devonshire so lately.'"
"And what did the Colonel
say?"
"Oh — he did not say
much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set
it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to
take place?"
"Mr. Brandon was very well I
hope?"
"Oh! yes, quite well; and so
full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you."
"I am flattered by his
commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly
pleasing."
"So do I. — He is such
a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so
dull.
Mama says
HE was in love with
your sister too.
— I assure you it was
a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any
body."
"Is Mr. Willoughby much known
in your part of Somersetshire?"
said Elinor.
"Oh! yes, extremely well;
that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe
Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure
you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you
may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my
honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so
very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her.
However, I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you;
for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am
sure, though we could not get him to own it last night."
Mrs. Palmer's information
respecting Willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his
favour, however small, was pleasing to her.
"I am so glad we are got
acquainted at last,"
continued Charlotte.
—
"And now I hope we shall
always be great friends. You can't think how much I longed to see you!
It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! Nothing can be
like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister is going to be well
married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet
place, by all accounts."
"You have been long
acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"
"Yes, a great while;
ever since my sister married. — He was a particular friend of Sir
John's. I believe,"
she added in a low
voice,
"he would have been
very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton
wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good enough for
me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we
should have been married immediately."
"Did not Colonel Brandon know
of Sir John's proposal to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned
his affection to yourself?"
"Oh, no; but if mama had not
objected to it, I dare say he would have liked it of all things. He had not
seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school. However, I am
much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I like."
Chapter 21
The Palmers returned to
Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Barton were again left to
entertain each other. But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got
their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at
Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so
simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often
existed between husband and wife, before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's
active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some other new
acquaintance to see and observe.
In a morning's excursion to
Exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the
satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for Sir
John to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present
engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave
way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little
alarm on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to
receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of
whose elegance, — whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no
proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for
nothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and
Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately
founded, when
she advised her
daughter
not to care about
their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up
with one another.
As it was impossible,
however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the
idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself
with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six
times every day.
The young ladies arrived:
their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was
very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house,
and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so doatingly
fond of children that Lady Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their
favour before they had been an hour at the Park.
She declared them to
be
very agreeable girls
indeed,
which for her ladyship was
enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment rose with
this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the
Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles' arrival, and to
assure them
of
their being the
sweetest girls in the world.
From such commendation as
this, however, there was not much to be learned;
Elinor well knew
that
the sweetest girls in
the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible
variation of form, face, temper and understanding.
Sir John wanted the whole
family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent,
philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to
himself.
"Do come now,"
said he —
"pray come — you
must come — I declare you shall come — You can't think how
you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and
agreeable! The children are all hanging about her already, as if she was
an old acquaintance. And they both long to see you of all things, for
they have heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in
the world; and I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal
more. You will be delighted with them I am sure. They have brought the
whole coach full of playthings for the children. How can you be so cross
as not to come? Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion.
YOU are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be
related."
But Sir John could not
prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their calling at the Park within
a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk
home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been
already boasting of the Miss Steeles to them.
When their promised visit to
the Park and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they
found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very
plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was
not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable
beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a
smartness of air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace,
gave distinction to her person. — Their manners were particularly
civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she
saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves
agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual
raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their
whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate
demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of
whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or
in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the
day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who
pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of
praise for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the
most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing;
and the excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her
offspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest
surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent
encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw
their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags
searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of
its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that
Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in
what was passing.
"John is in such
spirits today!"
said she, on his taking
Miss Steeles's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window
—
"He is full of monkey
tricks."
And soon afterwards, on the
second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly
observed,
"How playful William
is!"
"And here is my sweet
little Annamaria,"
she added, tenderly
caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for
the last two minutes;
"And she is always so
gentle and quiet — Never was there such a quiet little
thing!"
But unfortunately in
bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head dress slightly
scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such
violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly
noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass
the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so
critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage
the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap,
covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the
Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with
sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was
too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her
two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were
ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of
similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully
applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this
unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady
on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected.
— She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in
quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though
earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies
were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours.
"Poor little creatures!"
said Miss Steele, as
soon as they were gone.
"It might have been a
very sad accident."
"Yet I hardly know how,"
cried Marianne,
"unless it had been
under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of
heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in
reality."
"What a sweet woman Lady
Middleton is!"
said Lucy Steele.
Marianne was silent; it was
impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the
occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when
politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on,
by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with
far less than Miss Lucy.
"And Sir John too,"
cried the elder
sister,
"what a charming man he
is!"
Here too, Miss Dashwood's
commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat.
She merely observed
that
he was perfectly good
humoured and friendly.
"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in
my life. — I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am
always distractedly fond of children."
"I should guess so,"
said Elinor, with a
smile,
"from what I have
witnessed this morning."
"I have a
notion,"
said Lucy,
"you think the little
Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of
enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love
to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are
tame and quiet."
"I confess,"
replied Elinor,
"that while I am at
Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any
abhorrence."
A short pause succeeded this
speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed
for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly,
"And how do you like
Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave
Sussex."
In some surprise at the
familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was
spoken, Elinor replied that she was.
"Norland is a prodigious
beautiful place, is not it?"
added Miss Steele.
"We have heard Sir John
admire it excessively,"
said Lucy, who seemed to
think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
"I think every one MUST
admire it,"
replied Elinor,
"who ever saw the place;
though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties
as we do."
"And had you a great many
smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world;
for my part, I think they are a vast addition always."
"But why should you
think,"
said Lucy, looking
ashamed of her sister,
"that there are not as
many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"
"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I
don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm sure there's a vast many smart
beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might
be about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it
dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps
you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without
them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided
they dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and
nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a
beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a
morning, he is not fit to be seen. — I suppose your brother was quite
a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?"
"Upon my word,"
replied Elinor,
"I cannot tell you, for
I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can
say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for
there is not the smallest alteration in him."
"Oh! dear! one never thinks
of married men's being beaux — they have something else to do."
"Lord! Anne,"
cried her sister,
"you can talk of
nothing but beaux; — you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think
of nothing else." And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the
house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Miss
Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no
recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd
look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left
the house without any wish of knowing them better.
Not so the Miss Steeles.
— They came from Exeter, well provided with admiration for the use of
Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly
proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom
they declared to be
the most
beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld,
and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.
—
And to be better acquainted
therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable lot, for as Sir John was
entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles, their party would be too strong
for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which
consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every
day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that any more was
required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his
continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of
their being established friends.
To do him justice, he did
every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the Miss
Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins'
situations in the most delicate particulars, — and Elinor had not seen
them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished
her joy on her
sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau
since she came to Barton.
"'Twill be a fine thing
to have her married so young to be sure,"
said she,
"and I hear he is quite a
beau, and prodigious handsome. And I hope you may have as good luck
yourself soon, — but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner
already."
Elinor could not suppose
that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard
for Edward, than he had been with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather
his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural;
and since Edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking
to her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks,
as to excite general attention. The letter F —had been likewise
invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless jokes,
that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long
established with Elinor.
The Miss Steeles, as she
expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the eldest of them
they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which,
though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her
general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did
not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at
least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing
it.
"His name is
Ferrars,"
said he, in a very
audible whisper;
"but pray do not tell
it, for it's a great secret."
"Ferrars!"
repeated Miss
Steele;
"Mr. Ferrars is the happy
man, is he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very
agreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well."
"How can you say so,
Anne?"
cried Lucy, who
generally made an amendment to all her sister's assertions.
"Though we have seen
him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to
know him very well."
Elinor heard all this with
attention and surprise.
"And who was this uncle?
Where did he live? How came they acquainted?"
She wished very much to have
the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself; but
nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she thought
Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a
disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of
Edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather
ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying
herself to know something to his disadvantage. — But her curiosity was
unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss
Steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.
Chapter 22
Marianne, who had never much
toleration for any thing like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts,
or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly
ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss
Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of
her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on
their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which
soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who
missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to
improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her
sentiments.
Lucy was naturally clever;
her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour
Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid
from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all
mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars,
could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant
endeavour to appear to advantage.
Elinor saw,
and pitied her for,
the neglect of
abilities which education might have rendered so respectable;
but
she saw,
with less tenderness of
feeling,
the thorough want of
delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her
assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed;
and she
could have no lasting
satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with
ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation
on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of
attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.
"You will think my
question an odd one, I dare say,"
said Lucy to her one
day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage
—
"but pray, are you
personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs.
Ferrars?"
Elinor DID think
the question a very
odd one,
and her countenance
expressed it, as
she answered that
she had never seen
Mrs. Ferrars.
"Indeed!"
replied Lucy;
"I wonder at that, for I
thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you
cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?"
"No,"
returned Elinor,
cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's mother, and not very
desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity —
"I know nothing of
her."
"I am sure you think me
very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way,"
said Lucy, eyeing Elinor
attentively as she spoke;
"but perhaps there may
be reasons — I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will
do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be
impertinent."
Elinor made her a civil
reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by
Lucy?, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation,
"I cannot bear to have you
think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the
world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth
having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of
trusting YOU; indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in
such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion
to trouble YOU. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."
"I am sorry I do NOT,"
said Elinor, in great
astonishment,
"if it could be of any
use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that
you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little
surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her
character."
"I dare say you are, and I
am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would
not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present
— but the time MAY come — how soon it will come must depend upon
herself — when we may be very intimately connected."
She looked down as she said
this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe
its effect on her.
"Good heavens!"
cried Elinor,
"what do you mean? Are
you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?"
And she did not feel much
delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"No,"
replied Lucy,
"not to Mr. ROBERT
Ferrars — I never saw him in my life; but,"
fixing her eyes upon
Elinor,
"to his eldest
brother."
What felt Elinor at that
moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had
not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards
Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a
declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in
incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.
"You may well be
surprised,"
continued Lucy;
"for to be sure you
could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always
meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by
me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and
I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest
dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my
behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so
odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can
be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has
the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon
yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own
sisters." —She paused.
Elinor for a few moments
remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great
for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously,
she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her
surprise and solicitude —
"May I ask if your engagement
is of long standing?"
"We have been engaged these
four years."
"Four years!"
"Yes."
Elinor, though greatly
shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
"I did not know,"
said she,
"that you were even
acquainted till the other day."
"Our acquaintance, however,
is of many years date. He was under my uncle's care, you know, a
considerable while."
"Your uncle!"
"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you
never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"
"I think I have,"
replied Elinor, with an
exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion.
"He was four years with my
uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance
begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was
there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted
as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very
unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and
approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to
be so prudent as I ought to have been. — Though you do not know him so
well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible
he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."
"Certainly,"
answered Elinor, without
knowing what she said; but after a moment's reflection, she added, with
revived security of Edward's honour and love, and her companion's
falsehood —
"Engaged to Mr. Edward
Ferrars! — I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell
me, that really — I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some
mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."
"We can mean no other,"
cried Lucy,
smiling.
"Mr. Edward Ferrars,
the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your
sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow
that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all
my happiness depends."
"It is strange,"
replied Elinor, in a
most painful perplexity,
"that I should never
have heard him even mention your name."
"No; considering our
situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter
secret. — You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there
could be no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was
always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, THAT was
reason enough for his not mentioning it."
She was silent. —
Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it.
"Four years you have been
engaged,"
said she with a firm
voice.
"Yes; and heaven knows
how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out
of heart."
Then taking a small
miniature from her pocket, she added,
"To prevent the
possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not
do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to
the person it was drew for. — I have had it above these three
years."
She put it into her hands as
she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear
of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to
linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward's face. She
returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness.
"I have never been
able,"
continued Lucy,
"to give him my picture
in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so
anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first
opportunity."
"You are quite in the
right,"
replied Elinor calmly. They
then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
"I am sure,"
said she, "I have no doubt in the
world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of
what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she
would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I
fancy she is an exceeding proud woman."
"I certainly did not seek
your confidence,"
said Elinor;
"but you do me no more
than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe
with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a
communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with
it could not add to its safety."
As she said this, she looked
earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps
the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's
countenance suffered no change.
"I was afraid you would
think I was taking a great liberty with you,"
said she,
"in telling you all
this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I
have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as
soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance.
Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due
to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother;
and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can
ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment
at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am
in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her
tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright
in the world t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John,
lest she should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through
in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what
I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in
such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom — we can
hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
broke."
Here she took out her
handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.
"Sometimes."
continued Lucy, after
wiping her eyes,
"I think whether it
would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely."
As she said this, she
looked directly at her companion.
"But then at other
times I have not resolution enough for it. — I cannot bear the
thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such
a thing would do. And on my own account too — so dear as he is to
me — I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise
me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do
yourself?"
"Pardon me,"
replied Elinor, startled
by the question;
"but I can give you no
advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct
you."
"To be sure,"
continued Lucy, after a
few minutes silence on both sides,
"his mother must provide
for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did
you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so
miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid
you would think him quite ill."
"Did he come from your
uncle's, then, when he visited us?"
"Oh, yes; he had been
staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from
town?"
"No,"
replied Elinor, most
feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy's
veracity;
"I remember
he told us, that
he had been
staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth."
She remembered too, her
own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those
friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.
"Did not you think him sadly
out of spirits?"
repeated Lucy.
"We did, indeed, particularly
so when he first arrived."
"I begged him to exert
himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him
so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and
seeing me so much affected. — Poor fellow! — I am afraid it
is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I
heard from him just before I left Exeter;"
taking a letter from
her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor.
"You know his hand, I
dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as
usual. — He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the
sheet to me as full as possible."
Elinor saw that it WAS his
hand, and she could doubt no longer.
This picture,
she had allowed herself to
believe,
might have been
accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a
correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive
engagement, could be authorised by nothing else;
for a few moments, she was
almost overcome — her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly
stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so
resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was
speedy, and for the time complete.
"Writing to each
other,"
said Lucy, returning the
letter into her pocket,
"is the only comfort we
have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his
picture, but poor Edward has not even THAT. If he had but my
picture,
he says
he should be
easy.
I gave him a lock of my
hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and
that was some
comfort to him,
he said,
but not equal to
a picture.
Perhaps you might notice
the ring when you saw him?"
"I did,"
said Elinor, with a
composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond
any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked,
confounded.
Fortunately for her, they
had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no
farther. After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to
the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched.
[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 1 ends.]
Chapter 23
However small Elinor's
general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on
serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation
could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a
description. What Lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, Elinor could not,
dared not longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such
probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes.
Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation
for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near
Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own
prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge
of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had
often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether
such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly,
and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his
ill-treatment of herself. — Her resentment of such behaviour, her
indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for
herself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose.
Had Edward been
intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did
not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No;
whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present.
His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her
mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at
Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved
her.
What a softener of the
heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to
forgive!
He had been blamable,
highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence
over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be defended;
but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case
were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miserable for a
while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being
otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he to
look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could
he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity,
his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her
— illiterate, artful, and selfish?
The youthful
infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing but her
beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years — years, which
if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have
opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time,
spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had
perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an
interesting character to her beauty.
If in the supposition
of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed
great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his
engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in
fortune to herself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated
from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was
the state of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition and
unkindness, could be felt as a relief!
As these considerations
occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for
herself. Supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her
present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward had done nothing
to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under the first smart
of the heavy blow, command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the
truth from her mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her
own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after
she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would
have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning
in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of
her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a
man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she
expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house.
The necessity of concealing
from her mother and Marianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to
herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of
Elinor's distress. On the contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the
communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved
likewise from hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow
from the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more
than she felt equal to support.
From their counsel, or their
conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and
sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither
receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise. She was
stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her
firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as
with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.
Much as she had suffered
from her first conversation with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an
earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. She wanted
to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, she wanted more
clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were
any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and she
particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the
matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no
otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her
involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least
doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very
probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise,
not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so
short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently
important. And even Sir John's joking intelligence must have had some
weight. But indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of
being really beloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of
probabilities to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she
was so, her very confidence was a proof.
What other reason for
the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor might be
informed by it of Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid
him in future?
She had little difficulty in
understanding thus much of her rival's intentions, and while she was firmly
resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to
combat her own affection for Edward and to see him as little as possible;
she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that
her heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to
hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own
ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.
But it was not immediately
that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well
disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather
was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they
might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met
at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at
the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation.
Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head;
and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and
none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating,
drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any
other game that was sufficiently noisy.
One or two meetings of this
kind had taken place, without affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy
in private, when Sir John called at the cottage one morning,
to beg,
in the name of
charity, that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was
obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite
alone, except her mother and the two Miss Steeles.
Elinor, who foresaw a fairer
opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to
be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred
direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in
one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her
mother's permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always
unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who
could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to
go likewise.
The young ladies went, and
Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had
threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had
expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing
could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the
dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied
them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the
impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted it
only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and
Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of
finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation
for a round game.
"I am glad,"
said Lady Middleton to
Lucy,
"you are not going to
finish poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it
must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make
the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and
then I hope she will not much mind it."
This hint was enough, Lucy
recollected herself instantly and replied,
"Indeed you are very much
mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make
your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already. I would
not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the
card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper."
"You are very good, I hope
it won't hurt your eyes — will you ring the bell for some working
candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the
basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would
not, I am sure she depends upon having it done."
Lucy directly drew her work
table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which
seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a
filigree basket for a spoilt child.
Lady Middleton proposed a
rubber of Casino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who
with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility,
exclaimed,
"Your Ladyship will have the
goodness to excuse ME — you know I detest cards. I shall go to the
piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned."
And without farther
ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if
she thanked heaven
that SHE had never made so rude a speech.
"Marianne can never keep
long from that instrument you know, ma'am,"
said Elinor,
endeavouring to smooth away the offence;
"and I do not much wonder
at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard."
The remaining five were now
to draw their cards.
"Perhaps,"
continued Elinor,
"if I should happen to
cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers
for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it
must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this
evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a
share in it."
"Indeed I shall be very
much obliged to you for your help,"
cried Lucy,
"for I find there is
more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a
shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all."
"Oh! that would be
terrible, indeed,"
said Miss Steele
—
"Dear little soul, how I
do love her!"
"You are very kind,"
said Lady Middleton to
Elinor;
"and as you really like
the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another
rubber, or will you take your chance now?"
Elinor joyfully profited by
the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which
Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased
Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready
attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same
table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work.
The pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own
thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides
herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might
safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject,
without any risk of being heard at the card-table.
Chapter 24
In a firm, though cautious
tone, Elinor thus began.
"I should be undeserving of
the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its
continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize
therefore for bringing it forward again."
"Thank you,"
cried Lucy
warmly,
"for breaking the ice;
you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I
had offended you by what I told you that Monday."
"Offended me! How could
you suppose so? Believe me,"
and Elinor spoke it with
the truest sincerity,
"nothing could be farther
from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive
for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?"
"And yet I do assure
you,"
replied Lucy, her little
sharp eyes full of meaning,
"there seemed to me to
be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite
uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been
quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to
trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my
own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a
consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I
am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would
make you overlook every thing else I am sure."
"Indeed, I can easily believe
that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me,
and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a
very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and
you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them.
Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother."
"He has only two thousand
pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own
part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been
always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for
him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him,
perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her.
We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the
world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and
constancy nothing can deprive me of I know."
"That conviction must be
every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in
your's. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between
many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four
years' engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed."
Lucy here looked up; but
Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that
could give her words a suspicious tendency.
"Edward's love for
me,"
said Lucy,
"has been pretty well
put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first
engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be
unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me
one moment's alarm on that account from the first."
Elinor hardly knew whether
to smile or sigh at this assertion.
Lucy went on.
"I am rather of a jealous
temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his
being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was
enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if
there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met,
or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked
more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at
Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly
observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could
not be deceived."
"All this,"
thought Elinor,
"is very pretty; but it
can impose upon neither of us."
"But what,"
said she after a short
silence,
"are your views? or have
you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a
melancholy and shocking extremity? — Is her son determined to
submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense
in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure
for a while by owning the truth?"
"If we could be certain that
it would be only for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud
woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely
secure every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward's sake,
frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures."
"And for your own sake too,
or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason."
Lucy looked at Elinor again,
and was silent.
"Do you know Mr. Robert
Ferrars?"
asked Elinor.
"Not at all — I never
saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother — silly and a great
coxcomb."
"A great coxcomb!"
repeated Miss Steele,
whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.
—
"Oh, they are talking of
their favourite beaux, I dare say."
"No sister,"
cried Lucy,
"you are mistaken
there, our favourite beaux are NOT great coxcombs."
"I can answer for it
that Miss Dashwood's is not,"
said Mrs. Jennings,
laughing heartily;
"for he is one of the
modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she
is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who SHE
likes."
"Oh,"
cried Miss Steele,
looking significantly round at them,
"I dare say Lucy's beau
is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood's."
Elinor blushed in spite of
herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual
silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a
lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of
a very magnificent concerto —
"I will honestly tell you of
one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear;
indeed I am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned.
I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the
church to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders
as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would
be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some
regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living;
which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely
to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we
might trust to time and chance for the rest."
"I should always be
happy,"
replied Elinor,
"to show any mark of my
esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my
interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is
brother to Mrs. John Dashwood — THAT must be recommendation enough
to her husband."
"But Mrs. John Dashwood
would not much approve of Edward's going into orders."
"Then I rather suspect that
my interest would do very little."
They were again silent for
many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh,
"I believe it would be the
wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the
engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it
would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end.
But you will not give me your advice, Miss Dashwood?"
"No,"
answered Elinor, with a
smile, which concealed very agitated feelings,
"on such a subject I
certainly will not. You know very well that my opinion would have no
weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes."
"Indeed you wrong me,"
replied Lucy, with great
solemnity;
"I know nobody of whose
judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do really believe,
that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all means to put an end
to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more for the
happiness of both of you,' I should
resolve upon doing it immediately."
Elinor blushed for the
insincerity of Edward's future wife, and replied,
"This compliment would
effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had I formed
one. It raises my influence much too high; the power of dividing two people
so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person."
"'Tis because you are an
indifferent person,"
said Lucy, with some
pique, and laying a particular stress on those words,
"that your judgment
might justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be
biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be
worth having."
Elinor thought it wisest to
make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable
increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to
mention the subject again. Another pause therefore of many minutes'
duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first to end
it.
"Shall you be in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?"
said she with all her
accustomary complacency.
"Certainly not."
"I am sorry for
that,"
returned the other,
while her eyes brightened at the information,
"it would have gave me
such pleasure to meet you there! But I dare say you will go for all
that. To be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to
them."
"It will not be in my power
to accept their invitation if they do."
"How unlucky that is! I had
quite depended upon meeting you there. Anne and me are to go the latter end
of January to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these
several years! But I only go for the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there
in February, otherwise London would have no charms for me; I have not
spirits for it."
Elinor was soon called to
the card-table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential
discourse of the two ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them
submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side
to make them dislike each other less than they had done before; and Elinor
sat down to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that
Edward was not only
without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not
even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere
affection on HER side would have given, for self-interest alone could induce
a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly
aware that he was weary.
From this time the subject
was never revived by Elinor, and when entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed
an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her
confidante, of her happiness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it
was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon
as civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence
which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.
The visit of the Miss
Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation
implied. Their favour increased; they could not be spared; Sir John would
not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and long arranged
engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of returning to
fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week,
they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist
in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary
share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.
Chapter 25
Though Mrs. Jennings was in
the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her
children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own.
Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less
elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of
the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the
approach of January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly,
and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany
her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the
animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a
grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be
speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was
their determined
resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year.
Mrs. Jennings received the
refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.
"Oh, Lord! I am sure your
mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg you will favour me with your
company, for I've quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be
any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for
you. It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford
THAT. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are
in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may
always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to
it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands
that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I
don't get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it
shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young
men, you may depend upon it."
"I have a
notion,"
said Sir John,
"that Miss Marianne
would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into
it. It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure,
because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to
set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to
Miss Dashwood about it."
"Nay,"
cried Mrs.
Jennings,
"I am sure I shall be
monstrous glad of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go
or not, only the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more
comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me,
they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back.
But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me!
how do you think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always
used till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne,
let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change
her mind by and bye, why so much the better."
"I thank you, ma'am,
sincerely thank you,"
said Marianne, with
warmth:
"your invitation has
insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes,
almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it.
But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother, — I feel the justice of
what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less
comfortable by our absence — Oh! no, nothing should tempt me to
leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle."
Mrs. Jennings repeated her
assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor,
who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every
thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again,
made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her
mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any
support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of
for Marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to
avoid.
Whatever Marianne was
desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote — she could not
expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair
respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and
she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to
London.
That Marianne, fastidious as
she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably
disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should
disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her
pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the
importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had
passed, was not prepared to witness.
On being informed of the
invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be
productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through
all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of Marianne
was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon HER account;
insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee,
with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to
them all, from this separation.
"I am delighted with the
plan,"
she cried,
"it is exactly what I
could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as
yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so
quietly and happily together with our books and our music! You will find
Margaret so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of
alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any
inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you SHOULD go to town; I
would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with
the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a
motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no
doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever
may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son
he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each
other."
"Though with your usual
anxiety for our happiness,"
said Elinor,
"you have been obviating
every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is
still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily
removed."
Marianne's countenance
sunk.
"And what,"
said Mrs.
Dashwood,
"is my dear prudent
Elinor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring
forward? Do let me hear a word about the expense of it."
"My objection is this; though
I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's heart, she is not a woman whose society
can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us
consequence."
"That is very
true,"
replied her
mother,
"but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing
at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady
Middleton."
"If Elinor is frightened
away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,"
said Marianne,
"at least it need not
prevent MY accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am
sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very
little effort."
Elinor could not help
smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to
whom she had often had difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with
tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister
persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper
that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or
that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the
comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination
she was
the more easily reconciled,
by
recollecting that
Edward Ferrars, by
Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit,
without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
"I will have you BOTH
go,"
said Mrs.
Dashwood;
"these objections are
nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and
especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to
anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of
sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance
with her sister-in-law's family."
Elinor had often wished for
an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the
attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the
whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of
success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she
could,
"I like Edward Ferrars very
much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family,
it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to
them or not."
Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and
said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and
Elinor conjectured
that
she might as well
have held her tongue.
After very little farther
discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully
accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information with a great deal of joy,
and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure
merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing
anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number
of inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the
trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way;
and as for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy,
they had never
been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them.
Elinor submitted to the
arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had
expected to feel. With regard to herself,
it was now a matter
of unconcern whether she went to town or not,
and when she saw her mother
so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in
look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated
to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause,
and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence.
Marianne's joy was almost a
degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and
her impatience to be gone. Her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only
restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that
score was excessive. Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was
the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any
thing short of eternal.
Their departure took place
in the first week in January. The Middletons were to follow in about a week.
The Miss Steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only
with the rest of the family.
Chapter 26
Elinor could not find
herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and beginning a journey to
London under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own
situation,
so short had their
acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and
disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure only
a few days before!
But these objections had
all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally
shared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every
occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of
delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of
Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her
own state of mind in the comparison, and
how gladly she would
engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating
object in view, the same possibility of hope.
A short, a very short
time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions were; in all
probability he was already in town.
Marianne's eagerness
to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there;
and Elinor was resolved not
only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own
observation or the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon
watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to
ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken
place. Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was
determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be
otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature —
she must then learn
to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might
lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.
They were three days on
their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy
specimen of what future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs. Jennings
might be expected to be. She sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her
own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any
object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation
of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct
therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility which
she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs.
Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever
she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible
kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and
only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the
inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled
fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day,
glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a
carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.
The house was handsome, and
handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in
possession of a very comfortable apartment. It had formerly been
Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in coloured
silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a
great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be
ready in less than two hours from their arrival, Elinor determined to employ
the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a
few moments Marianne did the same.
"I am writing home,
Marianne,"
said Elinor;
"had not you better defer
your letter for a day or two?"
"I am NOT going to write to
my mother,"
replied Marianne, hastily,
and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more;
it immediately struck her
that
she must then be
writing to Willoughby;
and the conclusion which as
instantly followed was,
that, however
mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair,
they must be
engaged.
This conviction, though not
entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with
greater alacrity. Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length
it could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed
with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the
direction; and no sooner was it complete than
Marianne,
ringing the bell,
requested the
footman
who answered it
to get that letter
conveyed for her to the two-penny post.
This decided the matter at
once.
Her spirits still continued
very high; but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much
pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on.
She could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the
drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every
carriage.
It was a great satisfaction
to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could
see little of what was passing. The tea things were brought in, and already
had Marianne been disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring
door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one
at any other house, Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's
approach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was
silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced
a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned
into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him
would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant she
could not help exclaiming,
"Oh, Elinor, it is
Willoughby, indeed it is!"
and seemed almost ready to
throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.
It was too great a shock to
be borne with calmness, and she immediately left the room. Elinor was
disappointed too; but at the same time her regard for Colonel Brandon
ensured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurt that a man so
partial to her sister should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief
and disappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it was not
unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the room,
with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of
what civility demanded towards herself.
"Is your sister ill?"
said he.
Elinor answered in some
distress that
she was,
and then talked of
head-aches, low
spirits, and over fatigues;
and of every thing to which
she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.
He heard her with the most
earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the
subject, and began directly to speak of
his pleasure at
seeing them in London,
making the usual inquiries
about their journey, and the friends they had left behind.
In this calm kind of way,
with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of
them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere.
Elinor wished very much to
ask
whether Willoughby
were then in town,
but she was afraid of giving
him pain by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying
something,
she asked
if he had been in
London ever since she had seen him last.
"Yes,"
he replied, with some
embarrassment,
"almost ever since; I
have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never
been in my power to return to Barton."
This, and the manner in
which it was said, immediately brought back to her remembrance all the
circumstances of his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions
they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she was fearful that her question had
implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had ever felt.
Mrs. Jennings soon came
in.
"Oh! Colonel,"
said she, with her usual
noisy cheerfulness,
"I am monstrous glad to
see you — sorry I could not come before — beg your pardon,
but I have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters;
for it is a long while since I have been at home, and you know one has
always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for
any time; and then I have had Cartwright to settle with — Lord, I
have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how
came you to conjure out that I should be in town today?"
"I had the pleasure of
hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been dining."
"Oh, you did; well, and how
do they all do at their house? How does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a
fine size by this time."
"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite
well, and I am commissioned to tell you, that
you will certainly
see her to-morrow."
"Ay, to be sure, I thought
as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see
— that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another
somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too — which you will not be
sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you
about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well! I was
young once, but I never was very handsome — worse luck for me.
However, I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest
beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and
better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does
your business go on? Come, come, let's have no secrets among
friends."
He replied with his
accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in
any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne was obliged to appear
again.
After her entrance, Colonel
Brandon became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs.
Jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. No other visitor appeared
that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to
bed.
Marianne rose the next
morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. The disappointment of the
evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen
that day. They had not long finished their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's
barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came laughing into
the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she
received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods
again.
So surprised at
their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along;
so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined
her own,
though at the same
time
she would never have
forgiven them if they had not come!
"Mr. Palmer will be so
happy to see you,"
said she;
"What do you think he
said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was now,
but it was something so droll!"
After an hour or two spent
in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every
variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's
side, and in laughter without cause on Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the
latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had
business that morning, to which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented,
as having likewise some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though
declining it at first was induced to go likewise.
Wherever they went, she was
evidently always on the watch. In Bond Street especially, where much of
their business lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop
the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from every thing
actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others.
Restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her
opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them
both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at
home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness
of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or
new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her
time in rapture and indecision.
It was late in the morning
before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than
Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when Elinor followed, she found her
turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no
Willoughby had been there.
"Has no letter been left
here for me since we went out?"
said she to the footman
who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the
negative.
"Are you quite sure of
it?"
she replied.
"Are you certain that
no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"
The man replied that
none had.
"How very odd!"
said she, in a low and
disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window.
"How odd, indeed!"
repeated Elinor within
herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness.
"If she had not known
him to be in town she would not have written to him, as she did; she
would have written to Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he
should neither come nor write! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in
permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little
known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long
to inquire; and how will MY interference be borne."
She determined,
after some
consideration,
that
if appearances
continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would
represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some
serious enquiry into the affair.
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly
ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and
invited in the morning, dined with them. The former left them soon after tea
to fulfill her evening engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in
making a whist table for the others. Marianne was of no use on these
occasions, as she would never learn the game; but though her time was
therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive
of pleasure to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of
expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a
few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to
the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the
room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of
distinguishing the long-expected rap.
Chapter 27
"If this open weather
holds much longer,"
said Mrs. Jennings, when
they met at breakfast the following morning,
"Sir John will not like
leaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's
pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take
it so much to heart."
"That is true,"
cried Marianne, in a
cheerful voice, and walking to the window as she spoke, to examine the
day.
"I had not thought of
that. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."
It was a lucky recollection,
all her good spirits were restored by it.
"It is charming weather
for THEM indeed,"
she continued, as she
sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance.
"How much they must
enjoy it! But"
(with a little return of
anxiety)
"it cannot be expected
to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a series of rain,
we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in,
and in all probability with severity. In another day or two perhaps;
this extreme mildness can hardly last longer — nay, perhaps it may
freeze tonight!"
"At any rate,"
said Elinor, wishing to
prevent Mrs. Jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as
she did,
"I dare say we shall have
Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week."
"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant
you we do. Mary always has her own way."
"And now,"
silently conjectured
Elinor,
"she will write to Combe
by this day's post."
But if she DID, the letter
was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness
to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of it might be, and far as Elinor
was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne
in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in
spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her
expectation of a frost.
The morning was chiefly
spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs. Jennings's acquaintance to
inform them of her being in town; and Marianne was all the time busy in
observing the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky and
imagining an alteration in the air.
"Don't you find it colder
than it was in the morning, Elinor? There seems to me a very decided
difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff. It was not so
yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a
moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon."
Elinor was alternately
diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered, and saw every night in the
brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the
atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.
The Miss Dashwoods had no
greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and
set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was
invariably kind. Every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on
the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady
Middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an
introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions.
Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than
she had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much
real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or
abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.
Colonel Brandon, who had a
general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to
look at Marianne and talk to Elinor, who often derived more satisfaction
from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw
at the same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister. She
feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness
with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse
than when at Barton.
About a week after their
arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was also arrived. His card was on
the table when they came in from the morning's drive.
"Good God!"
cried Marianne,
"he has been here while
we were out."
Elinor, rejoiced to be
assured of his being in London, now ventured to say,
"Depend upon it, he will call
again tomorrow."
But Marianne seemed hardly
to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped with the precious
card.
This event, while it raised
the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than
all, their former agitation. From this moment her mind was never quiet; the
expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for any
thing. She insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others
went out.
Elinor's thoughts were full
of what might be passing in Berkeley Street during their absence; but a
moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her,
that Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A note was just then brought
in, and laid on the table.
"For me!"
cried Marianne, stepping
hastily forward.
"No, ma'am, for my
mistress."
But Marianne, not convinced,
took it instantly up.
"It is indeed for Mrs.
Jennings; how provoking!"
"You are expecting a letter,
then?"
said Elinor, unable to be
longer silent.
"Yes, a little — not
much."
After a short pause.
"You have no confidence in
me, Marianne."
"Nay, Elinor, this reproach
from YOU — you who have confidence in no one!"
"Me!"
returned Elinor in some
confusion;
"indeed, Marianne, I have
nothing to tell."
"Nor I,"
answered Marianne with
energy,
"our situations then
are alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do
not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing."
Elinor, distressed by this
charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew
not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in
Marianne.
Mrs. Jennings soon appeared,
and the note being given her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton,
announcing their arrival in Conduit Street the night before, and
requesting the
company of her mother and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir
John's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in
Berkeley Street.
The invitation was accepted;
but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in common
civility to Mrs. Jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit,
Elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had
seen nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for
amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her
absence.
Elinor found, when the
evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of
abode, for although scarcely settled in town, Sir John had contrived to
collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a
ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve.
In the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London,
where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily
attained,
it was risking too
much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that Lady
Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two violins,
and a mere side-board collation.
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of
the party; from the former, whom they had not seen before since their
arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention
to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no
mark of recognition on their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without
seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the
other side of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she
entered: it was enough — HE was not there — and she sat down,
equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been
assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to
express his surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been
first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself
said something very
droll
on hearing that they were to
come.
"I thought you were both in
Devonshire,"
said he.
"Did you?"
replied Elinor.
"When do you go back
again?"
"I do not know."
And thus ended their
discourse.
Never had Marianne been so
unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much
fatigued by the exercise. She complained of it as they returned to Berkeley
Street.
"Aye, aye,"
said Mrs.
Jennings,
"we know the reason of
all that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been
there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was
not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was
invited."
"Invited!"
cried Marianne.
"So my daughter Middleton
told me, for it seems Sir John met him somewhere in the street this
morning."
Marianne said no more, but
looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing something
that might lead to her sister's relief,
Elinor resolved
to write the next
morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of
Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed;
and she was still more
eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow,
that Marianne was again writing to Willoughby, for
she
could not suppose it
to be to any other person.
About the middle of the day,
Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on business, and Elinor began her letter
directly, while Marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious for
conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire
in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very earnest in her application to her
mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's
inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from
Marianne an account of her real situation with respect to him.
Her letter was scarcely
finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was announced.
Marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any
kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked more than usually grave,
and though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he
had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a
word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her
sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first
time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before,
beginning with the observation of
"your sister looks
unwell to-day,"
or
"your sister seems out
of spirits,"
he had appeared on the
point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about
her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken,
by
his asking her
in a voice of some
agitation,
when he was to
congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother?
Elinor was not prepared
for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt
the simple and common expedient, of
asking
what he
meant?
He tried to smile as he
replied,
"your sister's
engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known."
"It cannot be generally
known,"
returned Elinor,
"for her own family do
not know it."
He looked surprised and
said,
"I beg your pardon, I am
afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy
intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally
talked of."
"How can that be? By whom can
you have heard it mentioned?"
"By many — by some of
whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, Mrs.
Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I might not have
believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced,
it will always find something to support its doubts, if I had not, when the
servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to
Mr. Willoughby in your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was
convinced before I could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled?
Is it impossible to-? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of
succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying
so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the
strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that
any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all
that remains."
These words, which conveyed
to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very
much. She was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her
spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it would
be most proper to give.
The real state of
things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself,
that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much
as too little.
Yet as
she was convinced
that
Marianne's affection
for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon's success, whatever
the event of that affection might be,
and at the same time wished
to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind,
after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or
believed.
She acknowledged,
therefore,
that
though she had never
been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each
other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their
correspondence she was not astonished to hear.
He listened to her with
silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat,
and after saying in a voice of emotion,
"to your sister I wish all
imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her,"
—
took leave, and went
away.
Elinor derived no
comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her
mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy
impression of Colonel Brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from
wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm
it.
Chapter 28
Nothing occurred during the
next three or four days, to make Elinor regret what she had done, in
applying to her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were
engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from
which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest
daughter; and for this party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her
appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid,
prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by
the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's
arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost
in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and when at
last
they were told that
Lady Middleton
waited for them at the door,
she started as if she had
forgotten that any one was expected.
They arrived in due time at
the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them
would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from
one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room
splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they
had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house,
they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat
and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some
time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to
Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor
luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from
the table.
They had not remained in
this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few
yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young
woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without
attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but
see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned
involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At
that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with
sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her
sister caught hold of her.
"Good heavens!"
she exclaimed,
"he is there — he
is there — Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to
him?"
"Pray, pray be
composed,"
cried Elinor,
"and do not betray what
you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you
yet."
This however was more than
she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only
beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of
impatience which affected every feature.
At last he turned round
again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a
tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing
himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and
determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after
Mrs. Dashwood,
and asked
how long they had
been in town.
Elinor was robbed of all
presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the
feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned
over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion,
"Good God! Willoughby, what
is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake
hands with me?"
He could not then avoid it,
but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment.
During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor
watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After
a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness.
"I did myself the honour of
calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was
not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card
was not lost, I hope."
"But have you not
received my notes?"
cried Marianne in the
wildest anxiety.
"Here is some mistake I
am sure — some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it?
Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell me, what is the
matter?"
He made no reply; his
complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on
catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking,
he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and
after saying,
"Yes, I had the pleasure of
receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as
to send me,"
turned hastily away with a
slight bow and joined his friend.
Marianne, now looking
dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor,
expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the
observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water.
"Go to him, Elinor,"
she cried, as soon as
she could speak,
"and force him to come
to me. Tell him I must see him again — must speak to him
instantly. — I cannot rest — I shall not have a moment's
peace till this is explained — some dreadful misapprehension or
other. — Oh go to him this moment."
"How can that be done? No, my
dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations.
Wait only till tomorrow."
With difficulty however
could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to
check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure,
till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was
impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to
the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time
Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase,
and
telling Marianne
that
he was gone,
urged the impossibility of
speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be
calm.
She
instantly
begged her sister
would entreat Lady
Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute
longer.
Lady Middleton, though in
the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too
polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her
cards to a friend, they departed as soon the carriage could be found.
Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne
was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs.
Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own
room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon
undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister
then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure
enough for thinking over the past.
That
some kind of
engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne
she could not doubt, and
that
Willoughby was weary
of it,
seemed equally clear;
for however Marianne
might still feed her own wishes, SHE could not attribute such behaviour to
mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of
sentiment could account for it.
Her indignation would have
been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment
which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented
her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the
affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear
investigation.
Absence might have
weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome
it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself
to doubt.
As for Marianne, on the
pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those
still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she
could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in
the comparison; for
while she
could
ESTEEM
Edward as much as
ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always
supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed
uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from
Willoughby — in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with
him.
Chapter 29
Before the house-maid had
lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy
morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of
the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from
it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In
this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first
perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent
anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,
"Marianne, may I
ask-?"
"No, Elinor,"
she replied,
"ask nothing; you will
soon know all."
The sort of desperate
calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke,
and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction.
It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent
bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen,
were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was
writing for the last time to Willoughby.
Elinor paid her every quiet
and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth
and tranquilize her still more, had not
Marianne entreated
her,
with all the eagerness of
the most nervous irritability,
not to speak to her
for the world.
In such circumstances, it
was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless
state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a
moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual
change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time,
avoiding the sight of every body.
At breakfast she neither
ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor's attention was then all
employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard
her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to
herself.
As this was a favourite meal
with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just
setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter
was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and,
turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who
saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that
it must come from
Willoughby,
felt immediately such a
sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in
such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs.
Jennings's notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had
received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke,
and which she treated accordingly,
by hoping,
with a laugh, that
she would find it to
her liking.
Of Elinor's distress, she
was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see
any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne
disappeared, she said,
"Upon my word, I never saw a
young woman so desperately in love in my life! MY girls were nothing to her,
and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is
quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't
keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so
ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?"
Elinor, though never less
disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an
attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied,
"And have you really, Ma'am,
talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr.
Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question
seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive
yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more
than to hear of their being going to be married."
"For shame, for shame, Miss
Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't we all know that it must be a match,
that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first
moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and
all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on
purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are
so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no
such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so
long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte."
"Indeed, Ma'am,"
said Elinor, very
seriously,
"you are mistaken.
Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and
you will find that you have though you will not believe me now."
Mrs. Jennings laughed again,
but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what
Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the
door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one
letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near,
but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand,
kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of
tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter,
though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour,
and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters
into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief,
almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it
was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of
suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to
Willoughby's letter, read as follows:
"Bond Street, January.
"MY DEAR MADAM,
"I have just had the honour
of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere
acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my
behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am
quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to
offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been
perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance
with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and
flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my
actions. My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been
so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to
express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my
professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will
allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been
long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before
this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your
commands in returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you,
and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me.
"I am, dear Madam, "Your
most obedient "humble servant, "JOHN WILLOUGHBY."
With what indignation such a
letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware,
before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and
confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language
could be suffered to announce it;
nor could she have
supposed
Willoughby capable of
departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate
feeling — so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a
letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his
desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of
faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever — a letter of which
every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in
hardened villainy.
She paused over it for some
time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every
perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter
were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak,
lest she might wound Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement,
not as a loss to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst
and most irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an
unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most
important.
In her earnest meditations
on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could
dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of a very different
person, who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her
heart gave him with every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate
distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet
unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when
on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see
who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to
perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till
one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at
present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs.
Jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a
thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most
readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom
she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time
to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want
of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite,
and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no
longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was
felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness.
A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly, made her more
comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness,
by saying,
"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I
make you!"
"I only wish,"
replied her
sister,
"there were any thing I
COULD do, which might be of comfort to you."
This, as every thing else
would have been, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the
anguish of her heart,
"Oh! Elinor, I am miserable,
indeed,"
before her voice was
entirely lost in sobs.
Elinor could no longer
witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.
"Exert yourself, dear
Marianne,"
she cried,
"if you would not kill
yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her misery
while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."
"I cannot, I cannot,"
cried Marianne;
"leave me, leave me, if
I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.
Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of
exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what I
suffer."
"Do you call ME happy,
Marianne? Ah! if you knew! — And can you believe me to be so, while I
see you so wretched!"
"Forgive me, forgive
me,"
throwing her arms round
her sister's neck;
"I know you feel for me;
I know what a heart you have; but yet you are — you must be happy;
Edward loves you — what, oh what, can do away such happiness as
that?"
"Many, many circumstances,"
said Elinor,
solemnly.
"No, no, no,"
cried Marianne
wildly,
"he loves you, and only
you. You CAN have no grief."
"I can have no pleasure while
I see you in this state."
"And you will never see me
otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing can do away."
"You must not talk so,
Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no
opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would
have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later
period — if your engagement had been carried on for months and months,
as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional
day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more
dreadful."
"Engagement!"
cried Marianne,
"there has been no
engagement."
"No engagement!"
"No, he is not so unworthy
as you believe him. He has broken no faith with me."
"But he told you that he
loved you."
"Yes — no —
never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never professedly declared.
Sometimes I thought it had been — but it never was."
"Yet you wrote to him?"
—
"Yes — could that be
wrong after all that had passed? — But I cannot talk."
Elinor said no more, and
turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger
curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. The first,
which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this
effect.
Berkeley Street,
January.
"How surprised you will be,
Willoughby, on receiving this; and I think you will feel something more than
surprise, when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither,
though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you
may receive this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it.
At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.
"M.D."
Her second note, which had
been written on the morning after the dance at the Middletons', was in these
words: —
"I cannot express my
disappointment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my
astonishment at not having received any answer to a note which I sent you
above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to
see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and
explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You had better come
earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We were last
night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told that
you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must be very much
altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not
there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive
your personal assurance of its being otherwise.
"M.D."
The contents of her last
note to him were these: —
"What am I to imagine,
Willoughby, by your behaviour last night? Again I demand an explanation of
it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation
naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton
appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched
night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less
than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable
apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification
of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in
something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me
what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be
satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be
obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you
are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was
insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be
told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful
indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease
to what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you
will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your
possession.
"M.D."
That such letters, so full
of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, Elinor, for
Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But her
condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their having
been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the imprudence which
had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by
anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne,
perceiving that she had finished the letters,
observed to her that
they contained
nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.
"I felt myself,"
she added,
"to be as solemnly
engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each
other."
"I can believe it,"
said Elinor;
"but unfortunately he did
not feel the same."
"He DID feel the same,
Elinor — for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may
have changed him now, (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me
can have done it), I was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish. This
lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the
most earnest supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard
his voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being
together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When
he told me that
it might be many
weeks before we met again —
his distress — can I
ever forget his distress?"
For a moment or two she
could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a
firmer tone,
"Elinor, I have been cruelly
used; but not by Willoughby."
"Dearest Marianne, who but
himself? By whom can he have been instigated?"
"By all the world, rather
than by his own heart. I could rather believe every creature of my
acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his
nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom he writes — whoever
she be — or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and
Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond you three, is there a
creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than
Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?"
Elinor would not contend,
and only replied,
"Whoever may have been so
detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my
dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and
good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride
which resists such malevolence."
"No, no,"
cried Marianne,
"misery such as mine has
no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing
me so may be open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer
little may be proud and independent as they like — may resist
insult, or return mortification — but I cannot. I must feel
— I must be wretched — and they are welcome to enjoy the
consciousness of it that can."
"But for my mother's sake and
mine — "
"I would do more than for my
own. But to appear happy when I am so miserable — Oh! who can require
it?"
Again they were both silent.
Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window,
from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from
one, or discerning objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the
foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took
up Willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed
—
"It is too much! Oh,
Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours! Cruel, cruel —
nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might have
heard against me — ought he not to have suspended his belief?
ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of
clearing myself?
'The lock of
hair,
(repeating it from the
letter,)
which you so
obligingly bestowed on me'
— That is
unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those
words? Oh, barbarously insolent! — Elinor, can he be
justified?"
"No, Marianne, in no possible
way."
"And yet this woman —
who knows what her art may have been? — how long it may have been
premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! — Who is she? —
Who can she be? — Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and
attractive among his female acquaintance? — Oh! no one, no one —
he talked to me only of myself."
Another pause ensued;
Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.
"Elinor, I must go home. I
must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone to-morrow?"
"To-morrow, Marianne!"
"Yes, why should I stay
here? I came only for Willoughby's sake — and now who cares for me?
Who regards me?"
"It would be impossible to go
to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the
commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that."
"Well then, another day or
two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the
questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers
— how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady
Middleton! Oh, what would HE say to that!"
Elinor advised her to lie
down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her
ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to
another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with
difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of
being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however,
which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time
till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and
motionless.
Chapter 30
Mrs. Jennings came
immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her
request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of
real concern.
"How do you do my dear?"
—
said she in a voice of great
compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to
answer.
"How is she, Miss Dashwood?
— Poor thing! she looks very bad. — No wonder. Ay, it is but too
true. He is to be married very soon — a good-for-nothing fellow! I
have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and
she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure
I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was.
Well, said I, all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young
lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife
may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend
on it. I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet
him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a
day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only
young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will
never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her any longer, for
she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and
Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse
her."
She then went away, walking
on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction
could be increased by noise.
Marianne, to the surprise of
her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against
it. But
"no, she would go down; she
could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less."
Elinor, pleased to have her
governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible
that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for
her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was
ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to
it.
When there, though looking
most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected.
Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's
well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have
been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of
her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing
before her.
Elinor, who did justice to
Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and
sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned
her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself.
Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing
was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her
therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite
child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place
by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to
be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the
sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have
been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in
love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon,
however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition
on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery,
and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried
out of the room.
"Poor soul!"
cried Mrs. Jennings, as
soon as she was gone,
"how it grieves me to
see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her
wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any
good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all
over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man
should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money
on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no
more about such things! — "
"The lady then — Miss
Grey I think you called her — is very rich?"
"Fifty thousand pounds, my
dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not
handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very
wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds!
and by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is
all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well,
it don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and
makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to
fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready
to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house,
turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you,
Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But
that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given
up by the young men of this age."
"Do you know what kind of a
girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable?"
"I never heard any harm of
her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did
say this morning, that one day
Miss Walker hinted to her,
that
she believed Mr.
and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and
Mrs. Ellison could never agree." —
"And who are the
Ellisons?"
"Her guardians, my dear.
But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice
she has made! — What now,"
after pausing a moment
—
"your poor sister is
gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing
one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her
be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will
amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but
is there no round game she cares for?"
"Dear ma'am, this kindness is
quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this
evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she
wants rest."
"Aye, I believe that will be
best for her. Let her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder
she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this
matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the
letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a
notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then
you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing
but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at
about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they
hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street
in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow."
"It would be unnecessary I am
sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr.
Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my
sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of
appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that
may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be
spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe."
"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do
indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your
sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world.
You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters,
for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them
a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said
about such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And
what does talking ever do you know?"
"In this affair it can only
do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has
been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in
it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do THIS justice
to Mr. Willoughby — he has broken no positive engagement with my
sister."
"Law, my dear! Don't pretend
to defend him.
No positive
engagement
indeed! after taking her all
over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in
hereafter!"
Elinor, for her sister's
sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required
of her for Willoughby's; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could
gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence
on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth
again.
"Well, my dear, 'tis a true
saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon.
He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an't
married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he
will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two
thousand a year without debt or drawback — except the little
love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at
a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can
tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts
and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered
with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one
corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there!
Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty
canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it
is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road,
so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour
behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a
nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within
a stone's throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park,
where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a
neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as
soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we
CAN but put Willoughby out of her head!"
"Ay, if we can do THAT,
Ma'am,"
said Elinor,
"we shall do very well
with or without Colonel Brandon."
And then rising, she went
away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,
leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till
Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.
"You had better leave me,"
was all the notice that her
sister received from her.
"I will leave you,"
said Elinor,
"if you will go to
bed."
But this, from the momentary
perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. Her
sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to
compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she
hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her.
In the drawing-room, whither
she then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass,
full of something, in her hand.
"My dear,"
said she,
entering,
"I have just recollected
that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that
ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My
poor husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old
colicky gout,
he said
it did him more
good than any thing else in the world.
Do take it to your
sister."
"Dear Ma'am,"
replied Elinor, smiling
at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended,
"how good you are! But I
have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I
think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will
give me leave, I will drink the wine myself."
Mrs. Jennings, though
regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with
the compromise; and
Elinor,
as she swallowed the chief
of it,
reflected, that
though its effects on
a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing
powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as
on her sister.
Colonel Brandon came in
while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for
Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to
see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned
her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon
after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor
presided, and whispered —
"The Colonel looks as grave
as ever you see. He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."
He shortly afterwards drew a
chair close to hers, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his
good information, inquired after her sister.
"Marianne is not well,"
said she.
"She has been indisposed
all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed."
"Perhaps, then,"
he hesitatingly
replied,
"what I heard this
morning may be — there may be more truth in it than I could
believe possible at first."
"What did you hear?"
"That a gentleman, whom I
had reason to think — in short, that a man, whom I KNEW to be engaged
— but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you
must, I may be spared."
"You mean,"
answered Elinor, with
forced calmness,
"Mr. Willoughby's
marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we DO know it all. This seems to have been
a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to
us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?"
"In a stationer's shop in
Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies were waiting for their carriage,
and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a
voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to
hear all. The name of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated,
first caught my attention; and what followed was a positive assertion
that
every thing was
now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey — it was no
longer to be a secret — it would take place even within a few weeks,
with many particulars of preparations and other matters.
One thing, especially, I
remember, because it served to identify the man still more: —
as soon as the
ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in
Somersetshire.
My astonishment! — but
it would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I
learnt, on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs.
Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's
guardian."
"It is. But have you likewise
heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand pounds? In that, if in any thing, we
may find an explanation."
"It may be so; but
Willoughby is capable — at least I think" —
he stopped a moment;
then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself,
"And your sister —
how did she — "
"Her sufferings have been
very severe. I have only to hope that they may be proportionately short. It
has been, it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she
never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps — but I am almost
convinced that he never was really attached to her. He has been very
deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about
him."
"Ah!"
said Colonel
Brandon,
"there is, indeed! But
your sister does not — I think you said so — she does not
consider quite as you do?"
"You know her disposition,
and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she
could."
He made no answer; and soon
afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the
card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had
watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see
the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety
on Colonel Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth,
of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening
more serious and thoughtful than usual.
Chapter 31
From a night of more sleep
than she had expected, Marianne awoke the next morning to the same
consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes.
Elinor encouraged her as
much as possible to talk of what she felt; and before breakfast was ready,
they had gone through the subject again and again; and with the same steady
conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous
feelings and varying opinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could
believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at
others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At
one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the
world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it
came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs.
Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. Her heart
was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows
with any compassion.
"No, no, no, it cannot
be,"
she cried;
"she cannot feel. Her
kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that
she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply
it."
Elinor had not needed this
to be assured of the injustice to which her sister was often led in her
opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too
great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility,
and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if
more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent
abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid.
She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own,
and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in
their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still
lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to
prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed
in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.
With a letter in her
outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of
bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,
"Now, my dear, I bring you
something that I am sure will do you good."
Marianne heard enough. In
one moment her imagination placed before her a letter from Willoughby, full
of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed,
satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby himself,
rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of
his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed
by the next. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was
before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such
an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had
never suffered.
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings
no language, within her reach in her moments of happiest eloquence, could
have expressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears which
streamed from her eyes with passionate violence — a reproach, however,
so entirely lost on its object, that after many expressions of pity, she
withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when
she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled
every page.
Her mother,
still confident of their
engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been
roused by Elinor's application,
to intreat
from Marianne
greater openness
towards them both;
and this, with such
tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction
of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through
the whole of it.
All her impatience to be at
home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer
through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she
was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it
were better for Marianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of
her own except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at
length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left them
earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the Middletons and
Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing
Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning.
Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going to
communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded
in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an
account of what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while
Marianne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away,
remained fixed at the table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of
her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving
still more fondly over its effect on her mother.
In this manner they had
continued about a quarter of an hour, when Marianne, whose nerves could not
then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.
"Who can this be?"
cried Elinor.
"So early too! I thought
we HAD been safe."
Marianne moved to the window
—
"It is Colonel Brandon!"
said she, with
vexation.
"We are never safe from
HIM."
"He will not come in, as Mrs.
Jennings is from home."
"I will not trust to
THAT,"
retreating to her own
room.
"A man who has nothing
to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of
others."
The event proved her
conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice and error; for Colonel
Brandon DID come in; and Elinor, who was convinced that solicitude for
Marianne brought him thither, and who saw THAT solicitude in his disturbed
and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her,
could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly.
"I met Mrs. Jennings in
Bond Street,"
said he, after the first
salutation,
"and she encouraged me
to come on; and I was the more easily encouraged, because I thought it
probable that I might find you alone, which I was very desirous of
doing. My object — my wish — my sole wish in desiring it
— I hope, I believe it is — is to be a means of giving
comfort; — no, I must not say comfort — not present comfort
— but conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind. My
regard for her, for yourself, for your mother — will you allow me
to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing but a VERY
sincere regard — nothing but an earnest desire of being useful
— I think I am justified — though where so many hours have
been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some
reason to fear I may be wrong?"
He stopped.
"I understand
you,"
said Elinor.
"You have something to
tell me of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your
telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn
Marianne. MY gratitude will be insured immediately by any information
tending to that end, and HERS must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray
let me hear it."
"You shall; and, to be
brief, when I quitted Barton last October, — but this will give
you no idea — I must go farther back. You will find me a very
awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A short
account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be a short
one. On such a subject,"
sighing heavily,
"can I have little
temptation to be diffuse."
He stopt a moment for
recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on.
"You have probably entirely
forgotten a conversation — (it is not to be supposed that it could
make any impression on you) — a conversation between us one evening at
Barton Park — it was the evening of a dance — in which I alluded
to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your sister
Marianne."
"Indeed,"
answered Elinor,
"I have NOT forgotten
it."
He looked pleased by this
remembrance, and added,
"If I am not deceived by the
uncertainty, the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong
resemblance between them, as well in mind as person. The same warmth of
heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my
nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of
my father. Our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we
were playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love
Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps,
judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me
incapable of having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the
attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from a
different cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me for
ever. She was married — married against her inclination to my brother.
Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I
fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her
uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love
her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any
difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her
situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her
resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing — but how
blindly I relate! I have never told you how this was brought on. We were
within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the
folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a
relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no
amusement, till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her
fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one — but had her
marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have
reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This
however was not the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures
were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her
unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so
inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself
at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she
had not lived to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me
occasioned. But can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke
inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father
lived only a few months after their marriage, and I was with my regiment in
the East Indies) she should fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps —
but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years,
and for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage
had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling
weight — was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years
afterwards, of her divorce. It was THAT which threw this gloom, — even
now the recollection of what I suffered — "
He could say no more, and
rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room. Elinor, affected by
his relation, and still more by his distress, could not speak. He saw her
concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with
grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to
proceed with composure.
"It was nearly three years
after this unhappy period before I returned to England. My first care, when
I DID arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless
as it was melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and
there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink
deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her
fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from
my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months
before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that
her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it
for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months
in England, I DID find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had
since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house,
where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house, under a
similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered — so faded
— worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe
the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely,
blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so
beholding her — but I have no right to wound your feelings by
attempting to describe it — I have pained you too much already. That
she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was —
yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing
for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was
given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper
attendants; I visited her every day during the rest of her short life: I was
with her in her last moments."
Again he stopped to recover
himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern,
at the fate of his unfortunate friend.
"Your sister, I hope,
cannot be offended,"
said he,
"by the resemblance I
have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates,
their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet
disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier
marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other
be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you
for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood — a subject such as this —
untouched for fourteen years — it is dangerous to handle it at
all! I WILL be more collected — more concise. She left to my care
her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty
connection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child, and
had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to me;
and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by
watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations
allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was
therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after
the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which
left to me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at
Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I
have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It
is now three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that
I removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very
respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four
or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I
had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February,
almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her,
(imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go
to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father
there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I
thought well of his daughter — better than she deserved, for, with
a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would
give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a
well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give
no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while
the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they
chose; and
he tried to convince
me,
as thoroughly as he was
convinced himself,
of his daughter's
being entirely unconcerned in the business.
In short, I could learn
nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was
left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and
what I suffered too."
"Good heavens!"
cried Elinor,
"could it be —
could Willoughby!" —
"The first news that
reached me of her,"
he continued,
"came in a letter from
herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I
received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and
this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure
must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I
believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I
suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the
party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor
and miserable; but HAD he known it, what would it have availed? Would he
have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he
had already done that, which no man who CAN feel for another would do.
He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a
situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no
friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising to return;
he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her."
"This is beyond every thing!"
exclaimed Elinor.
"His character is now before
you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have
now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister
as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him:
guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week
and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute
what to do when it WAS known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you
then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived;
to see your sister — but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering
with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet
reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were
his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and
hereafter doubtless WILL turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when
she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched
and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with
an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind
tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this
comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to
be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On
the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them.
Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must
strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in
communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be
its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be
of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to
trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which
may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of
others."
Elinor's thanks followed
this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of
her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what
had passed
"I have been more
pained,"
said she,
"by her endeavors to
acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the
most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first
she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you,"
she continued, after a
short silence,
"ever seen Mr. Willoughby
since you left him at Barton?"
"Yes,"
he replied
gravely,
"once I have. One
meeting was unavoidable."
Elinor, startled by his
manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,
"What? have you met him to
— "
"I could meet him no other
way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her
lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after
myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We
returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."
Elinor sighed over the
fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to
censure it.
"Such,"
said Colonel Brandon,
after a pause,
"has been the unhappy
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly
have I discharged my trust!"
"Is she still in
town?"
"No; as soon as she
recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed
her and her child into the country, and there she remains."
Recollecting, soon
afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an
end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful
acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for
him.
Chapter 32
When the particulars of this
conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon
were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to
see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for
she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made
neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and
seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though
this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt WAS carried
home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her
no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him,
even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though
she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see
her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a
gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more
heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart;
his seduction and
desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of
what his designs might ONCE have been on herself,
preyed altogether so much on
her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even
to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her
sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent
confession of them.
To give the feelings or the
language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor's letter would
be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and
said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne's, and an
indignation even greater than Elinor's. Long letters from her, quickly
succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to
express her anxious solicitude for Marianne,
and entreat she
would
bear up with
fortitude under this misfortune.
Bad indeed must the nature
of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which SHE
could wish her not to indulge!
Against the interest of her
own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be better
for Marianne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton, where every
thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and
most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as
she had always seen him there.
She recommended
it to her daughters,
therefore,
by all means not to
shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings;
the length of which, though
never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or
six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could
not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and
might yet,
she hoped,
cheat Marianne, at
times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much
as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.
From all danger of seeing
Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in
town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all
who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each
other's way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and
chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than even in the
retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that
visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at
first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain
one.
She had yet another reason
for wishing her children to remain where they were;
a letter from her
son-in-law had told her that
he and his wife were
to be in town before the middle of February,
and she judged it right that
they should sometimes see their brother.
Marianne had promised to be
guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without
opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and
expected, though
she felt it to be
entirely wrong,
formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in
London it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness,
the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such
scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest.
But it was a matter of great
consolation to her, that
what brought evil to
herself would bring good to her sister;
and Elinor, on the other
hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely,
comforted herself by
thinking, that
though their longer
stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better
for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.
Her carefulness in guarding
her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown
away. Marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage;
for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever
spoke of him before her. Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have
extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to
listen day after day to the indignation of them all.
Sir John, could not have
thought it possible.
"A man of whom he had
always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He did not
believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable
business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not speak
another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No, not if
it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they were kept watching for
two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It
was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly's
puppies! and this was the end of it!"
Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was
equally angry.
She was determined to drop
his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never
been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna
was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal
too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to
mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how
good-for-nothing he was."
The rest of Mrs. Palmer's
sympathy was shewn in procuring all the particulars in her power of the
approaching marriage, and communicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell
at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr.
Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes
might be seen.
The calm and polite
unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a happy relief to Elinor's
spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the
others. It was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in
ONE person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know
that there was ONE who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after
particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health.
Every qualification is
raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real
value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate
good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature.
Lady Middleton expressed her
sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred
very often, by saying,
"It is very shocking,
indeed!"
and by the means of this
continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods
from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them
without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the
dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in
the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her
own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion
of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance
and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.
Colonel Brandon's delicate,
unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had
abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's
disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften
it, and they always conversed with confidence. His chief reward for the
painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was
given in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the
gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was
obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. THESE assured him that his
exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and THESE
gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs.
Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel
continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to
make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the
end of two days,
to think that,
instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas,
and by the end of a
week
that
it would not be a
match at all.
The good understanding
between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the
honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be
made over to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to think at
all of Mrs. Ferrars.
Early in February, within a
fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's letter, Elinor had the painful
office of
informing her sister
that
he was
married.
She had taken care to have
the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the
ceremony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not receive the
first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly
examining every morning.
She received the news with
resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears;
but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day,
she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect
the event.
The Willoughbys left town as
soon as they were married; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger
of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet
left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she
had done before.
About this time the two Miss
Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's house in Bartlett's Buildings,
Holburn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in
Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were welcomed by them all with great
cordiality.
Elinor only was sorry to see
them. Their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a
very gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her
STILL in town.
"I should have been
quite disappointed if I had not found you here STILL,"
said she repeatedly,
with a strong emphasis on the word.
"But I always thought I
SHOULD. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile; though
you TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a
MONTH. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change
your mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great
pity to have went away before your brother and sister came. And now to
be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did
not keep to YOUR WORD."
Elinor perfectly understood
her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she
did NOT.
"Well, my dear,"
said Mrs.
Jennings,
"and how did you
travel?"
"Not in the stage, I
assure you,"
replied Miss Steele,
with quick exultation;
"we came post all the
way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to
town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved
very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we
did."
"Oh, oh!"
cried Mrs.
Jennings;
"very pretty, indeed! and the
Doctor is a single man, I warrant you."
"There now,"
said Miss Steele,
affectedly simpering,
"everybody laughs at me
so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why.
My cousins say
they are sure I
have made a conquest;
but for my part I declare
I never think about him from one hour's end to another.
'Lord! here comes
your beau, Nancy,'
my cousin said t'other
day,
when she saw him crossing
the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I — I cannot think
who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine."
"Aye, aye, that is very
pretty talking — but it won't do — the Doctor is the man, I
see."
"No, indeed!"
replied her cousin, with
affected earnestness,
"and I beg you will
contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."
Mrs. Jennings directly gave
her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would NOT, and Miss Steele
was made completely happy.
"I suppose you will go and
stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to
town,"
said Lucy, returning, after
a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.
"No, I do not think we
shall."
"Oh, yes, I dare say you
will."
Elinor would not humour her
by farther opposition.
"What a charming thing it is
that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!"
"Long a time,
indeed!"
interposed Mrs.
Jennings.
"Why, their visit is
but just begun!"
Lucy was silenced.
"I am sorry we cannot see
your sister, Miss Dashwood,"
said Miss Steele.
"I am sorry she is not
well — "
for Marianne had left the
room on their arrival.
"You are very good. My sister
will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been
very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for
company or conversation."
"Oh, dear, that is a great
pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! — I think she might see US;
and I am sure we would not speak a word."
Elinor, with great civility,
declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in
her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them.
"Oh, if that's all,"
cried Miss
Steele,
"we can just as well go
and see HER."
Elinor began to find this
impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of
checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions,
though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of
advantage in governing those of the other.
Chapter 33
After some opposition,
Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with
her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly
conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than
accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a
negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her
mother.
When they stopped at the
door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of
the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray's,
it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their's, she should
pay her visit and return for them.
On ascending the stairs, the
Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was
not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to
wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter
which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was
standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of
exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his
eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He
was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size,
shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and
debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop,
were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to
bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in
three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on
Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling
insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.
Marianne was spared from the
troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent
examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding
on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to
his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able
to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was
passing around her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.
At last the affair was
decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their
appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his
existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case,
drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the
Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express
admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected
indifference.
Elinor lost no time in
bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when
another gentleman presented himself at her side. She turned her eyes towards
his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother.
Their affection and pleasure
in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in Mr.
Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his
sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after
their mother were respectful and attentive.
Elinor found that he and
Fanny had been in town two days.
"I wished very much to
call upon you yesterday,"
said he,
"but it was impossible,
for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter
Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was
vastly pleased. THIS morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I
could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do
on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But
tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street,
and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a
woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce
me to THEM. As my mother-in-law's relations, I shall be happy to show
them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country,
I understand."
"Excellent indeed. Their
attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more
than I can express."
"I am extremely glad to hear
it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be; they are
people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and
accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be
reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little
cottage and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of
the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and
you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to
us to hear it, I assure you."
Elinor did feel a little
ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of
answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's servant, who came to tell
her that his mistress waited for them at the door.
Mr. Dashwood attended them
down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage,
and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took
leave.
His visit was duly paid. He
came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming
too;
"but she was so much engaged
with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where."
Mrs. Jennings,
however,
assured him directly,
that
she should not stand
upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she
should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters
to see her.
His manners to THEM, though
calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on
Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be
equally civil to HIM.
After staying with them half
an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce
him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she
readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries
began.
"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is
he a man of fortune?"
"Yes; he has very good
property in Dorsetshire."
"I am glad of it. He seems a
most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the
prospect of a very respectable establishment in life."
"Me, brother! what do you
mean?"
"He likes you. I observed
him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his
fortune?"
"I believe about two thousand
a year."
"Two thousand a-year;"
and then working himself
up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added,
"Elinor, I wish with all
my heart it were TWICE as much, for your sake."
"Indeed I believe you,"
replied Elinor;
"but I am very sure that
Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying ME."
"You are mistaken,
Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side
secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness
of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him
against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which
ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And there
can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be
supposed that any prior attachment on your side — in short, you
know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question,
the objections are insurmountable — you have too much sense not to
see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be
wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a
match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of
thing that" —
lowering his voice to
an important whisper —
"will be exceedingly
welcome to ALL PARTIES."
Recollecting himself,
however, he added,
"That is, I mean to say
— your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled;
Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I
assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman,
I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other
day."
Elinor would not vouchsafe
any answer.
"It would be something
remarkable, now,"
he continued,
"something droll, if
Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same time.
And yet it is not very unlikely."
"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,"
said Elinor, with
resolution,
"going to be
married?"
"It is not actually settled,
but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs.
Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a
thousand a year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton,
only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very
desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking
place in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away,
to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you
another instance of her liberality: — The other day, as soon as we
came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now,
she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds.
And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we
are here."
He paused for her assent and
compassion; and she forced herself to say,
"Your expenses both in town
and country must certainly be considerable; but your income is a large
one."
"Not so large, I dare say,
as many people suppose. I do not mean to complain, however; it is
undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time be better. The
enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain. And
then I have made a little purchase within this half year; East Kingham Farm,
you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to live. The land was so
very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own
property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to
my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his
convenience; and it HAS cost me a vast deal of money."
"More than you think it
really and intrinsically worth."
"Why, I hope not that. I
might have sold it again, the next day, for more than I gave: but, with
regard to the purchase-money, I might have been very unfortunate indeed; for
the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not happened to have the
necessary sum in my banker's hands, I must have sold out to very great
loss."
Elinor could only
smile.
"Other great and inevitable
expenses too we have had on first coming to Norland. Our respected father,
as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at
Norland (and very valuable they were) to your mother. Far be it from me to
repine at his doing so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own
property as he chose, but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to
make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what
was taken away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we
must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness
is."
"Certainly,"
said Elinor;
"and assisted by her
liberality, I hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances."
"Another year or two may
do much towards it,"
he gravely
replied;
"but however there is
still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone laid of Fanny's
green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked
out."
"Where is the green-house to
be?"
"Upon the knoll behind the
house. The old walnut trees are all come down to make room for it. It will
be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden
will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared
away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow."
Elinor kept her concern and
her censure to herself; and was very thankful that Marianne was not present,
to share the provocation.
Having now said enough to
make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of
ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit at Gray's his thoughts
took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to congratulate Elinor on having such
a friend as Mrs. Jennings.
"She seems a most valuable
woman indeed — Her house, her style of living, all bespeak an
exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of
great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous.
— Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour;
and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all
probability when she dies you will not be forgotten. — She must have a
great deal to leave."
"Nothing at all, I should
rather suppose; for she has only her jointure, which will descend to her
children."
"But it is not to be
imagined that she lives up to her income. Few people of common prudence will
do THAT; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of."
"And do you not think it more
likely that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us?"
"Her daughters are both
exceedingly well married, and therefore I cannot perceive the necessity of
her remembering them farther. Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much
notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a
sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would
not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly
do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises."
"But she raises none in those
most concerned. Indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity
carries you too far."
"Why, to be sure,"
said he, seeming to
recollect himself,
"people have little,
have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is the matter
with Marianne? — she looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and
is grown quite thin. Is she ill?"
"She is not well, she has had
a nervous complaint on her for several weeks."
"I am sorry for that. At her
time of life, any thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever! Hers has
been a very short one! She was as handsome a girl last September, as I ever
saw; and as likely to attract the man. There was something in her style of
beauty, to please them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she
would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly
fond of YOU, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken,
however. I question whether Marianne NOW, will marry a man worth more than
five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if
YOU do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire; but,
my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think
I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best
pleased of your visitors."
Elinor tried very seriously
to convince him that there was no likelihood of her marrying Colonel
Brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be
relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that
gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. He had
just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to
be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an
offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest
means of atoning for his own neglect.
They were lucky enough to
find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended.
Abundance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir John was ready to like
anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know much about horses, he
soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw
enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having;
and Mr. Dashwood went away delighted with both.
"I shall have a charming
account to carry to Fanny,"
said he, as he walked
back with his sister.
"Lady Middleton is
really a most elegant woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be
glad to know. And Mrs. Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman,
though not so elegant as her daughter. Your sister need not have any
scruple even of visiting HER, which, to say the truth, has been a little
the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was
the widow of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and
Mrs. Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her
daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with.
But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."
Chapter 34
Mrs. John Dashwood had so
much confidence in her husband's judgment, that she waited the very next day
both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by
finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters were staying,
by no means unworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton,
she found her
one of the most
charming women in the world!
Lady Middleton was equally
pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on
both sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each
other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of
understanding.
The same manners, however,
which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the good opinion of Lady Middleton
did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and to HER she appeared nothing
more than a little proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her
husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything
to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street,
she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.
Elinor wanted very much to
know, though she did not chuse to ask, whether Edward was then in town; but
nothing would have induced Fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her,
till able to tell her that his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or
till her husband's expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because
she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could
not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The
intelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from another
quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on being unable
to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs.
Dashwood.
He dared not come to
Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual
impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but
write.
Edward assured them himself
of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley
Street. Twice was his card found on the table, when they returned from their
morning's engagements. Elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more
pleased that she had missed him.
The Dashwoods were so
prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that, though not much in the
habit of giving anything, they determined to give them — a dinner; and
soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in Harley Street,
where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their sisters and
Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure
Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were,
received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure.
They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons
were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing HER, however, was enough
to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet
Edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to
attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect
indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company
with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as
ever.
The interest with which she
thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully
than pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss Steeles were also to be at
it.
So well had they recommended
themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them
to her, that though Lucy was certainly not so elegant, and her sister not
even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or
two in Conduit Street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the
Miss Steeles, as soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their
visit should begin a few days before the party took place.
Their claims to the notice
of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had
had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards
procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must
be welcome; and Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the
family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties,
and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been
happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's
card.
On Elinor its effect was
very different.
She began immediately to
determine, that
Edward who lived with
his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister;
and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of
Lucy! —
she hardly knew how
she could bear it!
These apprehensions,
perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on
truth. They were relieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the
good will of Lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe
disappointment when
she told her that
Edward certainly
would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday,
and even hoped to be
carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that
he was kept away by
the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were
together.
The important Tuesday came
that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable
mother-in-law.
"Pity me, dear Miss
Dashwood!"
said Lucy, as they
walked up the stairs together — for the Middletons arrived so
directly after Mrs. Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the
same time —
"There is nobody here
but you, that can feel for me. — I declare I can hardly stand.
Good gracious! — In a moment I shall see the person that all my
happiness depends on — that is to be my mother!" —
Elinor could have given her
immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss Morton's
mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead of
doing that,
she assured her,
and with great
sincerity,
that
she did pity her
—
to the utter amazement of
Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an
object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.
Mrs. Ferrars was a little,
thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even to
sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion was sallow; and her features small,
without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of
the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by
giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman
of many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the
number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one
fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited
determination of disliking her at all events.
Elinor could not NOW be made
unhappy by this behaviour. — A few months ago it would have hurt her
exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars' power to distress her by it
now; — and the difference of her manners to the Miss Steeles, a
difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused
her.
She could not but smile to
see
the graciousness of
both mother and daughter towards the very person —
for Lucy was particularly
distinguished —
whom of all others,
had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to
mortify;
while she herself, who had
comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But
while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on
the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied
attentions with which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without
thoroughly despising them all four.
Lucy was all exultation on
being so honorably distinguished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed
about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.
The dinner was a grand one,
the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke the Mistress's
inclination for show, and the Master's ability to support it. In spite of
the improvements and additions which were making to the Norland estate, and
in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being
obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence
which he had tried to infer from it; — no poverty of any kind, except
of conversation, appeared — but there, the deficiency was
considerable. John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth
hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in
this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who
almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being
agreeable — Want of sense, either natural or improved — want of
elegance — want of spirits — or want of temper.
When the ladies withdrew to
the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for
the gentlemen HAD supplied the discourse with some variety — the
variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses — but then it
was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in,
which was the comparative heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's
second son William, who were nearly of the same age.
Had both the children been
there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at
once; but as Harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on
both sides; and every body had a right to be equally positive in their
opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.
The parties stood
thus:
The two mothers, though each
really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in
favour of the other.
The two grandmothers, with
not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of
their own descendant.
Lucy,
who was hardly less anxious
to please one parent than the other,
thought
the boys were both
remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be
the smallest difference in the world between them;
and Miss Steele, with yet
greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each.
Elinor, having once
delivered her opinion on William's side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferrars
and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any
farther assertion; and Marianne, when called on for hers, offended them all,
by
declaring that
she had no opinion to
give, as she had never thought about it.
Before her removing from
Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her
sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her
present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood
on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed
by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration.
"These are done by my
eldest sister,"
said he;
"and you, as a man of
taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you
have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in
general reckoned to draw extremely well."
The Colonel, though
disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens,
as he would have done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood; and on the
curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for
general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being Elinor's work,
particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received
gratifying testimony of Lady Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented them
to her mother,
considerately informing
her,
at the same time,
that
they were done by Miss
Dashwood.
"Hum" —
said Mrs. Ferrars
—
"very pretty,"
— and
without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.
Perhaps
Fanny thought
for a moment
that
her mother had been
quite rude enough, —
for, colouring a little, she
immediately said,
"They are very pretty, ma'am
— an't they?"
But then again, the dread of
having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for
she presently added,
"Do you not think they are
something in Miss Morton's style of painting, Ma'am? — She DOES paint
most delightfully! — How beautifully her last landscape is
done!"
"Beautifully indeed! But SHE
does every thing well."
Marianne could not bear
this. — She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such
ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's expense, though she had not any
notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say
with warmth,
"This is admiration of a
very particular kind! — what is Miss Morton to us? — who knows,
or who cares, for her? — it is Elinor of whom WE think and
speak."
And so saying, she took the
screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they
ought to be admired.
Mrs. Ferrars looked
exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced
in retort this bitter philippic,
"Miss Morton is Lord
Morton's daughter."
Fanny looked very angry too,
and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity. Elinor was
much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than she had been by what produced it;
but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he
noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not
bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.
Marianne's feelings did not
stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars's general behaviour to her
sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to
Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and
urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a
moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one
cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice,
"Dear, dear Elinor, don't
mind them. Don't let them make YOU unhappy."
She could say no more; her
spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoulder, she
burst into tears. Every body's attention was called, and almost every body
was concerned. — Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without
knowing what he did. — Mrs. Jennings, with a very intelligent
"Ah! poor dear,"
immediately gave her her
salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this
nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy
Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking
affair.
In a few minutes, however,
Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down
among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had
passed, the whole evening.
"Poor Marianne!"
said her brother to
Colonel Brandon, in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his
attention, —
"She has not such good
health as her sister, — she is very nervous, — she has not
Elinor's constitution; — and one must allow that there is
something very trying to a young woman who HAS BEEN a beauty in the loss
of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but
Marianne WAS remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as
Elinor. — Now you see it is all gone."
Chapter 35
Elinor's curiosity to see
Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. —
She had found in her
every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the
families undesirable. —
She had seen enough of her
pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to
comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and
retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise free;
— and
she had seen almost
enough to be thankful for her OWN sake, that one greater obstacle preserved
her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her
from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good
opinion.
Or at least, if she did not
bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy, she
determined, that
had Lucy been more
amiable, she OUGHT to have rejoiced.
She wondered that
Lucy's spirits could
be so very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrars; — that her
interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the
attention which seemed only paid her because she was NOT ELINOR, appear a
compliment to herself — or to allow her to derive encouragement from a
preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown.
But that it was so, had not
only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again
the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton
set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone,
to tell her
how happy she
was.
The chance proved a lucky
one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived, carried Mrs.
Jennings away.
"My dear friend,"
cried Lucy, as soon as
they were by themselves,
"I come to talk to you
of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars's way
of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was! — You
know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; — but the very
moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour
as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was
not it so? — You saw it all; and was not you quite struck with
it?"
"She was certainly very civil
to you."
"Civil! — Did you see
nothing but only civility? — I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as
fell to the share of nobody but me! — No pride, no hauteur, and your
sister just the same — all sweetness and affability!"
Elinor wished to talk of
something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for
her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on. —
"Undoubtedly, if they had
known your engagement,"
said she,
"nothing could be more
flattering than their treatment of you; — but as that was not the
case" —
"I guessed you would say
so," —
replied Lucy quickly
—
"but there was no reason
in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not,
and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my
satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no
difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming
woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women, indeed!
— I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood
was!"
To this Elinor had no answer
to make, and did not attempt any.
"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?
— you seem low — you don't speak; — sure you an't
well."
"I never was in better
health."
"I am glad of it with all my
heart; but really you did not look it. I should be sorry to have YOU ill;
you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world! — Heaven
knows what I should have done without your friendship." —
Elinor tried to make a civil
answer, though doubting her own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for
she directly replied,
"Indeed I am perfectly
convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward's love, it is the
greatest comfort I have. — Poor Edward! — But now there is one
good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady
Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in
Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister
— besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now; — and
Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they
should always be glad to see me. — They are such charming women!
— I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you
cannot speak too high."
But Elinor would not give
her any encouragement to hope that she SHOULD tell her sister. Lucy
continued.
"I am sure I should have
seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she had
only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and
never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant
way — you know what I mean — if I had been treated in that
forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not
have stood it. For where she DOES dislike, I know it is most
violent."
Elinor was prevented from
making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the
servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward's immediately walking
in.
It was a very awkward
moment; and the countenance of each shewed that it was so. They all looked
exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to
walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The very
circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been
most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them. — They were not only all
three together, but were together without the relief of any other person.
The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put
herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She
could therefore only LOOK her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him,
said no more.
But Elinor had more to do;
and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she
forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look
and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle,
another effort still improved them. She would not allow the presence of
Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her
from
saying that
she was happy to see
him,
and that
she had very much
regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.
She would not be frightened
from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation,
were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them
to be narrowly watching her.
Her manners gave some
re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his
embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the
case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart
had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the
ease of Elinor's.
Lucy, with a demure and
settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the
others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that WAS said,
proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information
about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought
to have inquired about, but never did.
Her exertions did not stop
here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to
determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by
themselves; and she really did it, and THAT in the handsomest manner, for
she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most
high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once
done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for
Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure
in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and
strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice
that expressed the affection of a sister.
"Dear Edward!"
she cried,
"this is a moment of
great happiness! — This would almost make amends for every
thing?"
Edward tried to return her
kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half
what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all
were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness,
sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their
delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward
was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and
express his fear of
her not finding
London agree with her.
"Oh, don't think of
me!"
she replied with
spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she
spoke,
"don't think of MY
health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us
both."
This remark was not
calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good
will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant
expression.
"Do you like London?"
said Edward, willing to say
any thing that might introduce another subject.
"Not at all. I expected much
pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only
comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always
were!"
She paused — no one
spoke.
"I think, Elinor,"
she presently
added,
"we must employ Edward
to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose,
we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to
accept the charge."
Poor Edward muttered
something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who
saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased
herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.
"We spent such a day,
Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! — But
I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now."
And with this admirable
discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives
more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with
his mother, till they were more in private.
"But why were you not there,
Edward? — Why did you not come?"
"I was engaged
elsewhere."
"Engaged! But what was that,
when such friends were to be met?"
"Perhaps, Miss
Marianne,"
cried Lucy, eager to
take some revenge on her,
"you think young men
never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little
as well as great."
Elinor was very angry, but
Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly
replied,
"Not so, indeed; for,
seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Edward from
Harley Street. And I really believe he HAS the most delicate conscience in
the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however
minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the
most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable
of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say
it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised! — Then you must be
no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must
submit to my open commendation."
The nature of her
commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly
ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very
unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.
"Going so soon!"
said Marianne;
"my dear Edward, this
must not be."
And drawing him a little
aside,
she whispered her
persuasion that
Lucy could not stay
much longer.
But even this encouragement
failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his
visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.
"What can bring her here
so often?"
said Marianne, on her
leaving them.
"Could not she see that
we wanted her gone! — how teazing to Edward!"
"Why so? — we were all
his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any. It is but
natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves."
Marianne looked at her
steadily, and said,
"You know, Elinor, that this
is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your
assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to
recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend
to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted."
She then left the room; and
Elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise
of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince
Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an
error might be, she was obliged to submit to it.
All that she could hope,
was that
Edward would not
often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken
warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had
attended their recent meeting —
and this she had every
reason to expect.
Chapter 36
Within a few days after this
meeting,
the newspapers announced to
the world, that
the lady of Thomas
Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir;
a very interesting and
satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew
it before.
This event, highly important
to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the
disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of
her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with
Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and
did not return till late in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the
particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day in
Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained,
at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing
to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made
over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in
fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.
They had too much sense to
be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were
considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on THEIR ground, and sharing the
kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though nothing could be more
polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not
really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her
children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were
fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing
what it was to be satirical; but THAT did not signify. It was censure in
common use, and easily given.
Their presence was a
restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the idleness of one, and the
business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before
them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and administer at
other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. Miss Steele was
the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their
power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have given
her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.
Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice
of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.
But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out
expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a
reflection on
the inconstancy of
beaux
before Marianne, no effect
was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in
the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend.
Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so little were
they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John
dined from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other
raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on
herself.
All these jealousies and
discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings,
that
she thought it
a delightful thing
for the girls to be together;
and generally congratulated
her young friends every night,
on having escaped
the company of a stupid old woman so long.
She joined them sometimes at
Sir John's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came
in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing
Charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so
minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough
to desire. One thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily
complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among
his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive,
at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and
every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father
of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other
baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple
proposition of its being
the finest child in
the world.
I come now to the relation
of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so
happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on
her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in — a
circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her. But
while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong
judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's
happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the
present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss
Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she
immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this
misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation
for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party
at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was
obliged to submit not only to
the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods,
but, what was still worse,
must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with
attention: and
who could tell that
they might not expect to go out with her a second time?
The power of disappointing
them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for when
people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they
feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them.
Marianne had now been
brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it
was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she
prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though
without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without
knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her.
To her dress and appearance
she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the
consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which it received from
Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when it was
finished. Nothing escaped HER minute observation and general curiosity; she
saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the
price of every part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of
her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not
without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost
per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The
impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded
with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered by
Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an
examination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes,
and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that
upon
"her word she looked
vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many
conquests."
With such encouragement as
this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, to her brother's carriage;
which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a
punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them
to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on
their part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.
The events of this evening
were not very remarkable. The party, like other musical parties,
comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and
a great many more who had none at all; and the performers themselves were,
as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the
first private performers in England.
As Elinor was neither
musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes
from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by
the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any
other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived
among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on
toothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at
herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to
find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy
civility, and twisted his head into a bow
which assured her
as plainly as words could
have done,
that
he was exactly the
coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy.
Happy had it been for her,
if her regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the
merit of his nearest relations! For then his brother's bow must have given
the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would
have begun. But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men,
she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of
all charity with the modesty and worth of the other.
Why they WERE
different,
Robert exclaimed to her
himself
in the course of a quarter
of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the
extreme
GAUCHERIE
which he really believed
kept him from mixing in proper society,
he candidly and generously
attributed it
much less to any
natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he
himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by
nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to
mix in the world as any other man.
"Upon my soul,"
he added,
"I believe it is nothing
more; and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My
dear Madam,' I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil
is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would
you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to
place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his
life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead
of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented.' This
is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is
perfectly convinced of her error."
Elinor would not oppose his
opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage
of a public school, she could not think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's
family, with any satisfaction.
"You reside in
Devonshire, I think," —
was his next
observation,
"in a cottage near
Dawlish."
Elinor set him right as to
its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could
live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty
approbation however on their species of house.
"For my own part,"
said he,
"I am excessively fond
of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about
them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little
land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I
might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me,
and be happy. I advise every body who is going to build, to build a
cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to
ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I
was to decide on the best of them. 'My dear Courtland,' said I,
immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of
them, but by all means build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the
end of it.
"Some people imagine that
there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a
mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliott's, near Dartford. Lady
Elliott wished to give a dance.
'But how can it be
done?'
said she;
'my dear Ferrars, do
tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that
will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?'
I immediately saw that there
could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not be
uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables
may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other
refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.' Lady Elliott was
delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found it would
hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my
plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it,
every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious
dwelling."
Elinor agreed to it all, for
she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood had no more
pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to
fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he
communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The
consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their
guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become
such, while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home.
The expense would be
nothing, the inconvenience not more;
and
it was altogether an
attention
which the delicacy of his
conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its
complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father.
Fanny was startled at the
proposal.
"I do not see how it can
be done,"
said she,
"without affronting Lady
Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any
attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews. But
they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from
her?"
Her husband, but with great
humility, did not see the force of her objection.
They had already spent a week
in this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased
at their giving the same number of days to such near relations."
Fanny paused a moment, and
then, with fresh vigor, said,
"My love I would ask them
with all my heart, if it was in my power. But I had just settled within
myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us. They are very
well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is due to them,
as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some
other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am
sure you will like them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much
already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with
Harry!"
Mr. Dashwood was convinced.
He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steeles immediately, and his
conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another
year; at the same time, however, slyly
suspecting that
another year would
make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town as Colonel
Brandon's wife, and Marianne as THEIR visitor.
Fanny, rejoicing in her
escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it,
wrote the next morning to
Lucy,
to request her company
and her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton
could spare them.
This was enough to make Lucy
really and reasonably happy.
Mrs. Dashwood seemed
actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting
all her views!
Such an opportunity of being
with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her
interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was
an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily
made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any
precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in
two days' time.
When the note was shown to
Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the
first time, some share in the expectations of Lucy;
for such a mark of
uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare
that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice
against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every
thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady
Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and
these were effects that laid open the probability of greater.
The Miss Steeles removed to
Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of their influence there,
strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more
than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be
universally striking.
Mrs. Dashwood had
never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with
them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called
Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know
whether she
should ever be able to part with them.
[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume II ended.]
Chapter 37
Mrs. Palmer was so well at
the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give
up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her
once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own
habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their
former share.
About the third or fourth
morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings,
on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the
drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such
hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving
her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by
saying,
"Lord! my dear Miss
Dashwood! have you heard the news?"
"No, ma'am. What is
it?"
"Something so strange! But
you shall hear it all. — When I got to Mr. Palmer's, I found Charlotte
quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill — it
cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly,
and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red gum
— ' and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be
satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come
in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he
saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but
the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away
again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think
of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon
that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know
something or other, and at last he said in a whisper,
For fear any
unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their
sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is
no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well.'"
"What! is Fanny ill?"
"That is exactly what I
said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs. Dashwood ill?' So then it all came
out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to
be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you
about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any
thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this
twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! — There's for you, my dear! — And
not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy! — Could
you have believed such a thing possible? — There is no great wonder in
their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward
between them, and nobody suspect it! — THAT is strange! — I
never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out
directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs.
Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the
matter; — till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a
well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out.
'Lord!'
thinks she to
herself,
'they are all so
fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;'
and so, away she went to
your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting
what was to come — for
she had just been
saying
to your brother, only five
minutes before,
that
she thought to make
a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or other,
I forget who. So you may
think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent
hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as
he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing
a letter to his steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a
terrible scene took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little
dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity HER. And I must say, I think
she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon
drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried
bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not
know what to do.
Mrs. Dashwood
declared
they should not stay
a minute longer in the house,
and your brother was forced
to go down upon HIS knees too,
to persuade her
to let them stay
till they had packed up their clothes.
THEN she fell into hysterics
again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr.
Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door
ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he
came off; poor Lucy
in such a
condition,
he says,
she could hardly
walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad.
I declare, I have no
patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match
in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he
hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! for
they say
he is monstrous
fond of her,
as well he may. I should not
wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion! — and Mr. Donavan
thinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and the
best of all is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be
within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as
ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was sure SHE would be in
hysterics too; and so she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of
them. I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and
greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not
marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and
though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how
to make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only
allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it
as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in such
another cottage as yours — or a little bigger — with two maids,
and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty
has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly."
Here Mrs. Jennings ceased,
and as Elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to
give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might
naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she was not suspected
of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late
often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to
Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt
very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her
judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one
concerned in it.
She could hardly determine
what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried
to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last,
than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do,
though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear;
and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For HIM she
felt much compassion; — for Lucy very little — and it cost her
some pains to procure that little; — for the rest of the party none at
all.
As Mrs. Jennings could talk
on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for
its discussion.
No time was to be
lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and
in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without
betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment
against Edward.
Elinor's office was a
painful one. — She was going to remove what she really believed to be
her sister's chief consolation, — to give such particulars of Edward
as
she feared
would ruin him for
ever in her good opinion,
-and to make Marianne, by a
resemblance in their situations, which to HER fancy would seem
strong,
feel all her own
disappointment over again.
But unwelcome as such a task
must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to
perform it.
She was very far from
wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering
much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her
first knowledge of Edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was
practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple; and though it
could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent
agitation, nor impetuous grief. — THAT belonged rather to the hearer,
for Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be
the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and
all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of
mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of
imprudence, was readily offered.
But Marianne for some time
would give credit to neither. Edward seemed a second Willoughby; and
acknowledging as Elinor did, that
she HAD loved him
most sincerely,
could she feel less than
herself! As for Lucy Steele,
she considered her
so totally
unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man,
that she could not be
persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former
affection of Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been
natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which
only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.
Her first communication had
reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement, and the length
of time it had existed. — Marianne's feelings had then broken in, and
put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be
done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her
resentment. The first question on her side, which led to farther
particulars, was, —
"How long has this been
known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?"
"I have known it these four
months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park last November, she told me in
confidence of her engagement."
At these words, Marianne's
eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter. After a
pause of wonder, she exclaimed —
"Four months! — Have
you known of this four months?"
Elinor confirmed it.
"What! — while
attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart? — And I
have reproached you for being happy!" —
"It was not fit that you
should then know how much I was the reverse!"
"Four months!" —
cried Marianne again.
—
"So calm! — so
cheerful! — how have you been supported?" —
"By feeling that I was doing
my duty. — My promise to Lucy, obliged me to be secret. I owed it to
her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my
family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it
could not be in my power to satisfy."
Marianne seemed much
struck.
"I have very often wished
to undeceive yourself and my mother,"
added Elinor;
"and once or twice I
have attempted it; — but without betraying my trust, I never could
have convinced you."
"Four months! — and
yet you loved him!" —
"Yes. But I did not love only
him; — and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to
spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it
with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my account; for I assure
you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many things to support me.
I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence
of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther.
I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so
sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some
regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is
the foundation on which every thing good may be built. — And after
all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and
constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending
entirely on any particular person, it is not meant — it is not fit
— it is not possible that it should be so. — Edward will marry
Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her
sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought
another superior to HER." —
"If such is your way of
thinking,"
said Marianne,
"if the loss of what is
most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your
resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be
wondered at. — They are brought more within my
comprehension."
"I understand you. —
You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. — For four months,
Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty
to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my
mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare
you for it in the least. — It was told me, — it was in a manner
forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all
my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with triumph. — This person's
suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear
indifferent where I have been most deeply interested; — and it has not
been only once; — I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to
again and again. — I have known myself to be divided from Edward for
ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the
connection. — Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything
declared him indifferent to me. — I have had to contend against the
unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered
the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages. —
And all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has
not been my only unhappiness. — If you can think me capable of ever
feeling — surely you may suppose that I have suffered NOW. The
composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider
the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the
effect of constant and painful exertion; — they did not spring up of
themselves; — they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.
— No, Marianne. — THEN, if I had not been bound to silence,
perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely — not even what I owed to
my dearest friends — from openly shewing that I was VERY unhappy."
—
Marianne was quite subdued.
—
"Oh! Elinor,"
she cried,
"you have made me hate
myself for ever. — How barbarous have I been to you! — you,
who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery,
who have seemed to be only suffering for me! — Is this my
gratitude? — Is this the only return I can make you? —
Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it
away."
The tenderest caresses
followed this confession. In such a frame of mind as she was now in, Elinor
had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and
at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to any one
with the least appearance of bitterness; — to meet Lucy without
betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her; — and even to see
Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution
of her usual cordiality. — These were great concessions; — but
where Marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much
for her to make.
She performed her promise of
being discreet, to admiration. — She attended to all that Mrs.
Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion,
dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say,
"Yes, ma'am." —
She listened to her praise
of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings
talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.
— Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal
to any thing herself.
The next morning brought a
farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most
serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his
wife.
"You have heard, I
suppose,"
said he with great
solemnity, as soon as he was seated,
"of the very shocking
discovery that took place under our roof yesterday."
They all looked their
assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.
"Your sister,"
he continued,
"has suffered
dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars too — in short it has been a scene of
such complicated distress — but I will hope that the storm may be
weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she
was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too
much.
Donavan says
there is nothing
materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her
resolution equal to any thing.
She has borne it all,
with the fortitude of an angel!
She says
she never shall
think well of anybody again;
and one cannot wonder at
it, after being so deceived! — meeting with such ingratitude,
where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence had been
placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had
asked these young women to her house; merely because
she thought
they deserved
some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant
companions;
for otherwise we both
wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while
your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so
rewarded!
'I wish, with all
my heart,'
says poor Fanny
in her affectionate
way,
'that we had
asked your sisters instead of them.'"
Here he stopped to be
thanked; which being done, he went on.
"What poor Mrs. Ferrars
suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. While
she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection
for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly
engaged to another person! — such a suspicion could never have entered
her head! If she suspected ANY prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in
THAT quarter.
'THERE, to be
sure,'
said she,
'I might have
thought myself safe.'
She was quite in an agony.
We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she
determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what
ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the
engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and
Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was
disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His
mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss
Morton;
told him
she would settle on
him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand
a-year;
offered even, when matters
grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he
still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain
penury that must attend the match.
His own two thousand
pounds
she protested
should be his all;
she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him
the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a
view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him
advancing in it."
Here Marianne, in an ecstasy
of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried,
"Gracious God! can this be
possible!"
"Well may you wonder,
Marianne,"
replied her
brother,
"at the obstinacy which
could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very
natural."
Marianne was going to
retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore.
"All this, however,"
he continued,
"was urged in vain.
Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined
manner.
Nothing should
prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him
what it might."
"Then,"
cried Mrs. Jennings with
blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent,
"he has acted like an
honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done
otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little
concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my
cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world,
nor one who more deserves a good husband."
John Dashwood was greatly
astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never
wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore
replied, without any resentment,
"I would by no means speak
disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare
say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the
connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement
with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of
such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little
extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any
person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely
happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as
every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has
been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will
be a bad one."
Marianne sighed out her
similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of Edward,
while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward
him.
"Well, sir,"
said Mrs.
Jennings,
"and how did it
end?"
"I am sorry to say, ma'am,
in a most unhappy rupture: — Edward is dismissed for ever from his
mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or
whether he is still in town, I do not know; for WE of course can make no
inquiry."
"Poor young man! — and
what is to become of him?"
"What, indeed, ma'am! It is
a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot
conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds
— how can a man live on it? — and when to that is added the
recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have
been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton
has thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched
condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally
out of our power to assist him."
"Poor young man!"
cried Mrs.
Jennings,
"I am sure he should be
very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I
could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own
charge now, at lodgings and taverns."
Elinor's heart thanked her
for such kindness towards Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at
the form of it.
"If he would only have
done as well by himself,"
said John
Dashwood,
"as all his friends were
disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation,
and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of
anybody's power to assist him. And there is one thing more preparing
against him, which must be worse than all — his mother has
determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle THAT estate
upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on proper
conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the
business."
"Well!"
said Mrs. Jennings,
"that is HER revenge.
Everybody has a way of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to
make one son independent, because another had plagued me."
Marianne got up and walked
about the room.
"Can anything be more
galling to the spirit of a man,"
continued John,
"than to see his younger
brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? Poor
Edward! I feel for him sincerely."
A few minutes more spent in
the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and
with repeated assurances to
his sisters that
he really believed
there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they need
not therefore be very uneasy about it,
he went away; leaving the
three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far
at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods', and
Edward's.
Marianne's indignation burst
forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve
impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a
very spirited critique upon the party.
Chapter 38
Mrs. Jennings was very warm
in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood
its true merit. THEY only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be
disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of
doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune.
Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in
compassion for his punishment. But though confidence between them was, by
this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on
which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it
upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too
warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's continued
affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and Marianne's
courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always
left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it
necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own.
She felt all the force of
that comparison; but not as her sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion
now; she felt it with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted
most bitterly that she had never exerted herself before; but it brought only
the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so
much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible, and
therefore it only dispirited her more.
Nothing new was heard by
them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in Harley Street, or
Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the matter was known to them
already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in spreading that
knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved from the
first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she
could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had
prevented her going to them within that time.
The third day succeeding
their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to
draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it was only the second week in
March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; but Marianne, who knew
that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting
them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a
place.
An intimate acquaintance of
Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they entered the Gardens, and Elinor
was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all Mrs.
Jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection. She saw
nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of
anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her.
But at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele,
who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting
them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs.
Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's. Mrs.
Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,
"Get it all out of her, my
dear. She will tell you any thing if you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs.
Clarke."
It was lucky, however, for
Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too, that she would tell any thing
WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt.
"I am so glad to meet
you;"
said Miss Steele, taking
her familiarly by the arm —
"for I wanted to see you
of all things in the world."
And then lowering her
voice,
"I suppose Mrs. Jennings
has heard all about it. Is she angry?"
"Not at all, I believe, with
you."
"That is a good thing. And
Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?"
"I cannot suppose it possible
that she should."
"I am monstrous glad of it.
Good gracious! I have had such a time of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage
in my life.
She vowed at first
she would never trim
me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she
lived;
but now she is quite come to,
and we are as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat,
and put in the feather last night. There now, YOU are going to laugh at me
too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it IS the
Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never have known
he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say
so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know
which way to look before them."
She had wandered away to a
subject on which Elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it
expedient to find her way back again to the first.
"Well, but Miss
Dashwood,"
speaking
triumphantly,
"people may say what
they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it
is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such
ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about
it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down
for certain."
"I never heard any thing of
the kind hinted at before, I assure you,"
said Elinor.
"Oh, did not you? But it WAS
said, I know, very well, and by more than one; for
Miss Godby told Miss Sparks,
that
nobody in their
senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with
thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at
all;
and I had it from Miss Sparks
myself. And besides that, my cousin
Richard said himself,
that
when it came to the
point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off;
and when Edward did not come
near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe
in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your
brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought to
write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this morning
he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he
had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his
mother and all of them, and how
he had declared
before them all
that
he loved nobody but
Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have.
And how he had been so
worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's
house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or
other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on
purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over
again,
he said,
it seemed to him as
if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind
to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he
had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if
he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but
a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?
—He could not bear to
think of her doing no better, and so
he begged,
if she had the least
mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for
himself.
I heard him say all this as
plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for HER sake, and upon HER
account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will
take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing
to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not
give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great
deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that — Oh, la! one can't
repeat such kind of things you know) —
she told him
directly,
she had not the
least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a
trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to
have it all,
you know, or something of the
kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what
they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they
must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear
any more, for
my cousin called from below
to tell me
Mrs. Richardson was
come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens;
so I was forced to go into
the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she
did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of
silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons."
"I do not understand what
you mean by interrupting them,"
said Elinor;
"you were all in the same
room together, were not you?"
"No, indeed, not us. La!
Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by?
Oh, for shame! — To be sure you must know better than that.
(Laughing affectedly.)
—
No, no; they were shut up
in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at
the door."
"How!"
cried Elinor;
"have you been repeating
to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry
I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to
give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known
yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"
"Oh, la! there is nothing in
THAT. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy
would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha
Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of
hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we
said."
Elinor tried to talk of
something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of
minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
"Edward talks of going to
Oxford soon,"
said she;
"but now he is lodging at
No. — , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't
she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan't
say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send us home
in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part,
I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the
huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was
said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight.
Edward have got
some business at Oxford,
he says;
so he must go there for a
time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be
ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! — Good gracious!
(giggling as she
spoke)
I'd lay my life I know
what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I
should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living.
I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the
world. — 'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think
of such a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'"
"Well,"
said Elinor,
"it is a comfort to be
prepared against the worst. You have got your answer ready."
Miss Steele was going to
reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another
more necessary.
"Oh, la! here come the
Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay away
from them not any longer. I assure you they are very genteel people. He
makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. I have not
time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite
happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same;
and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs.
Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and
stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton
won't ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not
here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin
on! — I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."
Such was her parting
concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments
to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and
Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of
reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had
been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage
with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place
remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be; —
every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that
preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest
chance.
As soon as they returned to
the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for information; but as Elinor wished
to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place
been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of
such simple particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her
own consequence, would choose to have known. The continuance of their
engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end,
was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the
following natural remark.
"Wait for his having a
living! — ay, we all know how THAT will end: — they will wait a
twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of
fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what
little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her. — Then they will
have a child every year! and Lord help 'em! how poor they will be! — I
must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and
two men, indeed! — as I talked of t'other day. — No, no, they
must get a stout girl of all works. — Betty's sister would never do
for them NOW."
The next morning brought
Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy herself. It was as
follows:
Bartlett's Building,
March.
"I hope my dear Miss
Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your
friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such a good account of
myself and my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through
lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that,
thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now,
and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. We have had great
trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully
acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great
kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have
told of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.
Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he would not
hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required,
urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the
spot, would he consent to it; but
he said
it should never be,
he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could have my
affections;
our prospects are not very
bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be
ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to
any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us,
and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir
John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us. —
Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best,
so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much trouble to give
us a call, should she come this way any morning, 'twould be a great
kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her. — My paper
reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully
remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear
children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,
"I am, &c."
As soon as Elinor had
finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its writer's real
design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who read it aloud with
many comments of satisfaction and praise.
"Very well indeed! —
how prettily she writes! — aye, that was quite proper to let him be
off if he would. That was just like Lucy. — Poor soul! I wish I COULD
get him a living, with all my heart. — She calls me dear Mrs.
Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. — Very
well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I will
go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of every body!
— Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. It is as pretty a letter as
ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great credit."
Chapter 39
The Miss Dashwoods had now
been rather more than two months in town, and Marianne's impatience to be
gone increased every day. She sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of
the country; and
fancied that
if any place could
give her ease, Barton must do it.
Elinor was hardly less
anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its
being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of
so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She
began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment,
and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted
them with all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested,
which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to
Elinor altogether much more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to
remove to Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and
Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from
Charlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient
for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood; — but it was inforced with so much
real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great
amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known to be
unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.
When she told Marianne what
she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious.
"Cleveland!"
—
she cried, with great
agitation.
"No, I cannot go to
Cleveland." —
"You forget,"
said Elinor
gently,
"that its situation is
not...that it is not in the neighbourhood of..."
"But it is in Somersetshire.
— I cannot go into Somersetshire. — There, where I looked
forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to go there."
Elinor would not argue upon
the propriety of overcoming such feelings; — she only endeavoured to
counteract them by working on others; —
represented it,
therefore,
as a measure which
would fix the time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much
wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other
plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which
was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not beyond one
day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily
come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their
staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little more
than three weeks' time.
As Marianne's affection for
her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the
imaginary evils she had started.
Mrs. Jennings was so far
from being weary of her guests, that
she pressed them very
earnestly
to return with her
again from Cleveland.
Elinor was grateful for the
attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother's concurrence
being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was arranged as
far as it could be; — and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a
statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from Barton.
"Ah! Colonel, I do not
know what you and I shall do without the Miss Dashwoods;" —
was Mrs. Jennings's
address to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was
settled —
"for they are quite
resolved upon going home from the Palmers; — and how forlorn we
shall be, when I come back! — Lord! we shall sit and gape at one
another as dull as two cats."
Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in
hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make
that offer, which might give himself an escape from it; — and if so,
she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained; for, on
Elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a
print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it
with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several
minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her
observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even
changed her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by the
piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from
seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too
intent on what he said to pursue her employment. — Still farther in
confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of Marianne's turning from one
lesson to another, some words of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear,
in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house.
This set the matter
beyond a doubt.
She wondered, indeed, at his
thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette.
What Elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the
motion of her lips, that
she did not think
THAT any material objection;
— and Mrs. Jennings
commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked on for a
few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop
in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the Colonel's calm
voice, —
"I am afraid it cannot take
place very soon."
Astonished and shocked at so
unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out,
"Lord! what should hinder
it?" —
but checking her desire,
confined herself to this silent ejaculation.
"This is very strange!
— sure he need not wait to be older."
This delay on the Colonel's
side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the
least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving
different ways, Mrs. Jennings very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a
voice which shewed her to feel what she said,
"I shall always think myself
very much obliged to you."
Mrs. Jennings was delighted
with her gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence,
the Colonel should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did,
with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making her any reply!
— She had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a
suitor.
What had really passed
between them was to this effect.
"I have heard,"
said he, with great
compassion,
"of the injustice your
friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand the
matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in
his engagement with a very deserving young woman. — Have I been
rightly informed? — Is it so? — "
Elinor told him that it
was.
"The cruelty, the
impolitic cruelty," —
he replied, with great
feeling, —
"of dividing, or
attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is
terrible. — Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be doing
— what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or
three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a
young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time,
but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as
a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends to
take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of
Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day's post, is his,
if he think it worth his acceptance — but THAT, perhaps, so
unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear
to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. — It is a rectory,
but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than
200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I
fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income.
Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting him to it, will be
very great. Pray assure him of it."
Elinor's astonishment at
this commission could hardly have been greater, had the Colonel been really
making her an offer of his hand.
The
preferment,
which only two days
before
she had considered
as hopeless for
Edward,
was already provided
to enable him to marry; — and SHE, of all people in the world, was
fixed on to bestow it!
— Her emotion was such
as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different cause; — but
whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that
emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the
particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act,
were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all
her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with that praise
which she knew them to deserve; and
promised
to undertake the
commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable
an office to another.
But at the same time,
she could not help
thinking that
no one could so well
perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to
give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from HER, she would have
been very glad to be spared herself;
— but Colonel Brandon,
on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so
desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any
account make farther opposition.
Edward,
she believed,
was still in town,
and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could
undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day.
After this had been settled,
Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so
respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that
he mentioned with regret,
that
the house was small
and indifferent;
— an evil which
Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at
least as far as regarded its size.
"The smallness of the
house,"
said she,
"I cannot imagine any
inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and
income."
By which the Colonel was
surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr. Ferrars's marriage as the
certain consequence of the presentation; for
he did not suppose it
possible that
Delaford living
could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture
to settle on —
and he said so.
"This little rectory CAN do
no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable
him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my
interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it
should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of
him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I
sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems
nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his
principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a
distant good; — at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.
— "
Such was the sentence which,
when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs.
Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel
Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed
by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less
reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an
offer of marriage.
Chapter 40
"Well, Miss
Dashwood,"
said Mrs. Jennings,
sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn,
"I do not ask you what
the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I TRIED
to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand
his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life,
and I wish you joy of it with all my heart."
"Thank you, ma'am,"
said Elinor.
"It is a matter of great
joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly.
There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have
so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my
life."
"Lord! my dear, you are very
modest. I an't the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often
thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen."
"You judged from your
knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence; but at least you could not
foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur."
"Opportunity!"
repeated Mrs. Jennings
—
"Oh! as to that, when a
man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will
soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and
again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I
shall soon know where to look for them."
"You mean to go to Delaford
after them I suppose,"
said Elinor, with a faint
smile.
"Aye, my dear, that I do,
indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel
would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw."
"He spoke of its being out of
repair."
"Well, and whose fault is
that? why don't he repair it? — who should do it but himself?"
They were interrupted by the
servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs.
Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, —
"Well, my dear, I must be
gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all
over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go
with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for
company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about
it."
Marianne had left the room
before the conversation began.
"Certainly, ma'am, I shall
tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body
else."
"Oh! very well,"
said Mrs. Jennings
rather disappointed.
"Then you would not
have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn
to-day."
"No, ma'am, not even Lucy if
you please. One day's delay will not be very material; and till I have
written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body
else. I shall do THAT directly. It is of importance that no time should be
lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his
ordination."
This speech at first puzzled
Mrs. Jennings exceedingly.
Why Mr. Ferrars was
to have been written to about it in such a hurry,
she could not immediately
comprehend.
A few moments' reflection,
however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed; —
"Oh, ho! — I
understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for
him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to
find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out
of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? — sure, he is the
proper person."
Elinor did not quite
understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's speech, neither did she think it
worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion.
"Colonel Brandon is so
delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to
Mr. Ferrars than himself."
"And so YOU are forced
to do it. Well THAT is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not
disturb you
(seeing her preparing to
write.)
You know your own
concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to
please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed."
And away she went; but
returning again in a moment,
"I have just been thinking
of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a
mistress. But whether she would do for a lady's maid, I am sure I can't
tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle.
However, you will think of all that at your leisure."
"Certainly, ma'am,"
replied Elinor, not hearing
much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of
the subject.
How she should begin —
how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her
concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that
which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world;
but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating
over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance
of Edward himself.
He had met Mrs. Jennings at
the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card;
and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to
enter, by
saying that
Miss Dashwood was
above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business.
Elinor had just been
congratulating herself,
in the midst of her
perplexity,
that
however difficult it
might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable
to giving the information by word of mouth,
when her visitor entered, to
force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion
were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before
since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her
to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been
thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly
uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and they sat
down together in a most promising state of embarrassment. — Whether he
had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he
could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his
apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a
chair.
"Mrs. Jennings told
me,"
said he,
"that you wished to
speak with me, at least I understood her so — or I certainly
should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same
time, I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing
you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time
— it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of
meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow."
"You would not have gone,
however,"
said Elinor, recovering
herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as
possible,
"without receiving our
good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. Mrs.
Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of
consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating
by paper. I am charged with a most agreeable office
(breathing rather faster
than usual as she spoke.)
Colonel Brandon,
who was here only ten
minutes ago,
has desired me to say,
that
understanding
you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the
living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more
valuable.
Allow me to congratulate
you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in
his wish that the living — it is about two hundred a-year —
were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to
— as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself
— such, in short, as might establish all your views of
happiness."
What Edward felt, as he
could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say
for him. He LOOKED all the astonishment which such unexpected, such
unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these
two words,
"Colonel Brandon!"
"Yes,"
continued Elinor,
gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over,
"Colonel Brandon means
it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed — for
the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family
has placed you — a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and
all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem
for your general character, and his particular approbation of your
behaviour on the present occasion."
"Colonel Brandon give ME a
living! — Can it be possible?"
"The unkindness of your own
relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where."
"No,"
replied he, with sudden
consciousness,
"not to find it in YOU;
for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.
— I feel it — I would express it if I could — but, as
you well know, I am no orator."
"You are very much mistaken.
I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your
own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discernment of it. I have had no hand in
it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was
vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living
in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps —
indeed I know he HAS, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my
word, you owe nothing to my solicitation."
Truth obliged her to
acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so
unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it
with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his
mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought,
after Elinor had ceased to speak; — at last, and as if it were rather
an effort, he said,
"Colonel Brandon seems a man
of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as
such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a
sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman."
"Indeed,"
replied Elinor,
"I believe that you will
find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be,
and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the
parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly
important that he SHOULD be all this."
Edward made no answer; but
when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest,
so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance
between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater.
"Colonel Brandon, I think,
lodges in St. James Street,"
said he, soon afterwards,
rising from his chair.
Elinor told him the number
of the house.
"I must hurry away then, to
give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give YOU; to assure him
that he has made me a very — an exceedingly happy man."
Elinor did not offer to
detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on HER side of
her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation
that might befall him; on HIS, with rather an attempt to return the same
good will, than the power of expressing it.
"When I see him again,"
said Elinor to herself,
as the door shut him out,
"I shall see him the
husband of Lucy."
And with this pleasing
anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and
endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to
reflect on her own with discontent.
When Mrs. Jennings came
home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before,
and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so
much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by
anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor
appeared.
"Well, my dear,"
she cried,
"I sent you up the young
man. Did not I do right? — And I suppose you had no great
difficulty — You did not find him very unwilling to accept your
proposal?"
"No, ma'am; THAT was not very
likely."
"Well, and how soon will he
be ready? — For it seems all to depend upon that."
"Really,"
said Elinor,
"I know so little of
these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time,
or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will
complete his ordination."
"Two or three months!"
cried Mrs.
Jennings;
"Lord! my dear, how
calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months!
Lord bless me! — I am sure it would put ME quite out of patience!
— And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr.
Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months
for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well;
somebody that is in orders already."
"My dear ma'am,"
said Elinor,
"what can you be
thinking of? — Why, Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use
to Mr. Ferrars."
"Lord bless you, my dear!
— Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries
you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!"
The deception could not
continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which
both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss
of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight
for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the
first.
"Aye, aye, the parsonage
is but a small one,"
said she, after the
first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over,
"and very likely MAY be
out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house
that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I
think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! — and to
you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! — It seems
quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some
thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy
goes to it."
"But Colonel Brandon does not
seem to have any idea of the living's being enough to allow them to
marry."
"The Colonel is a ninny, my
dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else
can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be
paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I
shan't go if Lucy an't there."
Elinor was quite of her
opinion, as to
the probability of
their not waiting for any thing more.
Chapter 41
Edward, having carried his
thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such
was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett's Buildings,
that
she was able to assure Mrs.
Jennings,
who called on her again the
next day with her congratulations,
that
she had never seen
him in such spirits before in her life.
Her own happiness, and her
own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most
heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in
Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from
any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward WOULD give her,
that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful
warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and
openly declared that
no exertion for their
good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise
her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those
she really valued.
As for Colonel
Brandon,
she was not only
ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he
should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes
should be raised to the utmost;
and scarcely resolved to
avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants,
his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.
It was now above a week
since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no
notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal
enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit. — This
was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but
which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions.
Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very
urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her
carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs. John
Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late
discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward's part,
could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence
was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could
really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a
woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike.
Mrs. Dashwood was denied;
but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally
came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting Elinor, told her that he
had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny
would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in.
They walked up stairs in to
the drawing-room. — Nobody was there.
"Fanny is in her own
room, I suppose,"
said he: —
"I will go to her
presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the
world to seeing YOU. — Very far from it, indeed. NOW especially
there cannot be — but however, you and Marianne were always great
favourites. — Why would not Marianne come?" —
Elinor made what excuse she
could for her.
"I am not sorry to see
you alone,"
he replied,
"for I have a good deal
to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's — can it be true?
— has he really given it to Edward? — I heard it yesterday
by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about
it."
"It is perfectly true.
— Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford to Edward."
"Really! — Well, this
is very astonishing! — no relationship! — no connection between
them! — and now that livings fetch such a price! — what was the
value of this?"
"About two hundred a
year."
"Very well — and for
the next presentation to a living of that value — supposing the late
incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to vacate it soon —
he might have got I dare say — fourteen hundred pounds. And how came
he not to have settled that matter before this person's death? — NOW
indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel Brandon's
sense! — I wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such
common, such natural, concern! — Well, I am convinced that there is a
vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. I suppose,
however — on recollection — that the case may probably be THIS.
Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has
really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it. — Aye, aye,
that is the fact, depend upon it."
Elinor contradicted it,
however, very positively; and by relating that she had herself been employed
in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must
understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her
authority.
"It is truly
astonishing!"—
he cried, after hearing
what she said —
"what could be the
Colonel's motive?"
"A very simple one — to
be of use to Mr. Ferrars."
"Well, well; whatever
Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky man. — You will not
mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I have broke it to her, and
she bears it vastly well, — she will not like to hear it much talked
of."
Elinor had some difficulty
here to refrain from
observing, that
she thought Fanny
might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by
which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished.
"Mrs. Ferrars,"
added he, lowering his
voice to the tone becoming so important a subject,
"knows nothing about it
at present, and I believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed
from her as long as may be. — When the marriage takes place, I
fear she must hear of it all."
"But why should such
precaution be used? — Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs.
Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money
enough to live upon, — for THAT must be quite out of the question; yet
why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? — She
has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, and has made all those
over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing
so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on
his account — she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him.
— She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child,
and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!"
"Ah! Elinor,"
said John,
"your reasoning is very
good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's
unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much
as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance
that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as
much as possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her
son."
"You surprise me; I should
think it must nearly have escaped her memory by THIS time."
"You wrong her exceedingly.
Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world."
Elinor was silent.
"We think NOW,"
—
said Mr. Dashwood,
after a short pause,
"of ROBERT'S marrying
Miss Morton."
Elinor, smiling at the grave
and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied,
"The lady, I suppose, has no
choice in the affair."
"Choice! — how do you
mean?"
"I only mean that I suppose,
from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she
marry Edward or Robert."
"Certainly, there can be no
difference; for Robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as
the eldest son; — and as to any thing else, they are both very
agreeable young men: I do not know that one is superior to the
other."
Elinor said no more, and
John was also for a short time silent. — His reflections ended
thus.
"Of ONE thing, my dear
sister,"
kindly taking her hand,
and speaking in an awful whisper, —
"I may assure you;
— and I WILL do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have
good reason to think — indeed I have it from the best authority,
or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say
any thing about it — but I have it from the very best authority
— not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say it herself
— but her daughter DID, and I have it from her — That in
short, whatever objections there might be against a certain — a
certain connection — you understand me — it would have been
far preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation
that THIS does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars
considered it in that light — a very gratifying circumstance you
know to us all.
'It would have
been beyond comparison,'
she said,
'the least evil
of the two, and she would be glad to compound NOW for nothing
worse.'
But however, all that is
quite out of the question — not to be thought of or mentioned
— as to any attachment you know — it never could be —
all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this,
because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason
to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly
well — quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered.
Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?"
Elinor had heard enough, if
not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self-importance, to agitate her
nerves and fill her mind; — and she was therefore glad to be spared
from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of
hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert
Ferrars. After a few moments' chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny
was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of
her; and Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by
the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying
so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice
of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life,
and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion
of his head and heart.
They had scarcely been two
minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of Edward; for he, too, had
heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Elinor
repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John; and their
effect on Robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had
been on HIM. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a
clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond
measure; — and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of
Edward reading
prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between
John Smith and Mary Brown,
he could
conceive nothing more
ridiculous.
Elinor, while she waited in
silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could not
restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the
contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it
relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled
from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own
sensibility.
"We may treat it as a
joke,"
said he, at last,
recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out
the genuine gaiety of the moment —
"but, upon my soul, it is
a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am
extremely sorry for it — for I know him to be a very good-hearted
creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You
must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.
— Poor Edward! — His manners are certainly not the happiest
in nature. — But we are not all born, you know, with the same
powers, — the same address. — Poor fellow! — to see
him in a circle of strangers! — to be sure it was pitiable enough!
— but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the
kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my
life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe it. — My
mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself
called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear
madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as
for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I
never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately. — I
was most uncommonly shocked, indeed! — Poor Edward! — he has
done for himself completely — shut himself out for ever from all
decent society! — but, as I directly said to my mother, I am not
in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always
to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic."
"Have you ever seen the
lady?"
"Yes; once, while she was
staying in this house, I happened to drop in for ten minutes; and I saw
quite enough of her. The merest awkward country girl, without style, or
elegance, and almost without beauty. — I remember her perfectly. Just
the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered
immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him
myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late THEN, I found,
to do any thing, for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew
nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me,
you know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier
— I think it is most probable — that something might have been
hit on. I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very strong
light. 'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you are doing.
You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family
are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that means
might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be starved, you
know; — that is certain; absolutely starved."
He had just settled this
point with great composure, when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an
end to the subject. But though SHE never spoke of it out of her own family,
Elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion
of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her
behaviour to herself.
She even proceeded so far
as to be
concerned to find
that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to
see more of them;
— an exertion in which
her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her
accents, seemed to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and
graceful.
Chapter 42
One other short call in
Harley Street, in which Elinor received
her brother's
congratulations on
their travelling so
far towards Barton without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to
follow them to Cleveland in a day or two,
completed the intercourse of
the brother and sisters in town; — and
a faint invitation from
Fanny,
to come to Norland
whenever it should happen to be in their way,
which of all things was the
most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public, assurance,
from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should come to see her
at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the country.
It amused her to observe
that
all her friends
seemed determined to send her to Delaford; — a place, in which, of all
others, she would now least chuse to visit, or wish to reside;
for not only was it
considered as her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even
Lucy, when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her
there.
Very early in April, and
tolerably early in the day, the two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley
Street set out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment, on the
road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her child, they were to be more
than two days on their journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more
expeditiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after
their arrival.
Marianne, few as had been
her hours of comfort in London, and eager as she had long been to quit it,
could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which she
had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that confidence, in
Willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without great pain. Nor
could she leave the place in which Willoughby remained, busy in new
engagements, and new schemes, in which SHE could have no share, without
shedding many tears.
Elinor's satisfaction, at
the moment of removal, was more positive. She had no such object for her
lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creature behind, from whom it
would give her a moment's regret to be divided for ever, she was pleased to
be free herself from the persecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful
for bringing her sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and
she looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton
might do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her
own.
Their journey was safely
performed. The second day brought them into the cherished, or the
prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in
Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to
Cleveland.
Cleveland was a spacious,
modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. It had no park, but the
pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; and like every other place of the
same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk,
a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the
lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the
guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick
screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out
the offices.
Marianne entered the house
with a heart swelling with emotion from the consciousness of being only
eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty from Combe Magna; and before she
had been five minutes within its walls, while the others were busily helping
Charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she quitted it again,
stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in
beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye,
wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest
on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and
fancy that
from their summits
Combe Magna might be seen.
In such moments of precious,
invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland; and as
she returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the happy
privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and
luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day
while she remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary
rambles.
She returned just in time to
join the others as they quitted the house, on an excursion through its more
immediate premises; and the rest of the morning was easily whiled away, in
lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and
listening to the gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through
the green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,
and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of Charlotte, —
and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes of her
dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or in
the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of
merriment.
The morning was fine and
dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for
any change of weather during their stay at Cleveland. With great surprise
therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain from going out
again after dinner. She had depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian
temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp
would not have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even SHE
could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.
Their party was small, and
the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer had her child, and Mrs. Jennings
her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left behind, arranged
Lady Middleton's engagements, and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel
Brandon would get farther than Reading that night. Elinor, however little
concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack
of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be
avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book.
Nothing was wanting on Mrs.
Palmer's side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them
feel themselves welcome. The openness and heartiness of her manner more than
atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often
deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty
a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because
it was not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her
laugh.
The two gentlemen arrived
the next day to a very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the
party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long
morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low.
Elinor had seen so little of
Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to
her sister and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him in his
own family.
She found him,
however,
perfectly the
gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude
to his wife and her mother; she found him very capable of being a pleasant
companion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude
to fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel
himself to be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character
and habits, they were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no
traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his
eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to
slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have
been devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much
better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she could
like him no more; — not sorry to be driven by the observation of his
Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the
remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident
feelings.
Of Edward, or at least of
some of his concerns, she now received intelligence from Colonel Brandon,
who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and who, treating her at once as the
disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind of confidant of himself,
talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its
deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing
them. — His behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other
particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten
days, his readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion,
might very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment, and
would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first,
believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. But as
it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs.
Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the nicest
observer of the two; — she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings
thought only of his behaviour; — and while his looks of anxious
solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning of a
heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter lady's
observation; — SHE could discover in them the quick feelings, and
needless alarm of a lover.
Two delightful twilight
walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being there, not merely on the
dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially in the
most distant parts of them, where there was something more of wildness than
in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest
and wettest, had — assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting
in her wet shoes and stockings — given Marianne a cold so violent as,
though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by
increasing ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.
Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined.
Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, and a sore
throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with
difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or
two of the simplest of the remedies.
Chapter 43
Marianne got up the next
morning at her usual time;
to every inquiry replied
that
she was
better,
and tried to prove herself
so, by engaging in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting
shivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to
read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in
favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and
more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's
composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against
Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,
trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no
real alarm.
A very restless and feverish
night, however, disappointed the expectation of both; and when Marianne,
after persisting in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned
voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's
advice, of sending for the Palmers' apothecary.
He came, examined his
patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days
would restore her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have
a putrid tendency, and allowing the word "infection" to pass his lips, gave
instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, on her baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had
been inclined from the first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than
Elinor, now looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming
Charlotte's fears and caution,
urged
the necessity of her
immediate removal with her infant;
and Mr. Palmer, though
treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of
his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on;
and within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little
boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who
lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised,
at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was
almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her.
Mrs. Jennings,
however, with a kindness of
heart which made Elinor really love her,
declared
her resolution of
not stirring from Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and of
endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the
mother she had taken her from;
and Elinor found her on
every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all
her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material
use.
Poor Marianne, languid and
low from the nature of her malady, and feeling herself universally ill,
could no longer hope that tomorrow would find her recovered; and the idea of
what tomorrow would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every
ailment severe; for on that day they were to have begun their journey home;
and, attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have
taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she
said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to
raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed
herself, that it would be a very short one.
The next day produced little
or no alteration in the state of the patient; she certainly was not better,
and, except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse. Their party
was now farther reduced; for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well
from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be
frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to
perform his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go,
Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of
going likewise. — Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings
interposed most acceptably; for
to send the Colonel
away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her sister's account, would
be to deprive them both,
she thought,
of every
comfort;
and therefore
telling him at once
that
his stay at Cleveland
was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an
evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her sister,
&c. she urged him so
strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own
heart by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as
Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to
feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to
assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.
Marianne was, of course,
kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. She knew not that she had been
the means of sending the owners of Cleveland away, in about seven days from
the time of their arrival. It gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of
Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her
name.
Two days passed away from
the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her situation continued, with little
variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attended her every day, still talked
boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the
expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful.
Mrs. Jennings had
determined
very early in the
seizure
that
Marianne would never
get over it,
and Colonel Brandon, who was
chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's forebodings, was not in a
state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of
fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render
absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone,
were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he
could not expel from his mind
the persuasion that
he should see
Marianne no more.
On the morning of the third
day however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for
when Mr. Harris arrived,
he declared
his patient
materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more
favourable than on the preceding visit.
Elinor, confirmed in every
pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her
mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, in making
very light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost
fixing on the time when Marianne would be able to travel.
But the day did not close so
auspiciously as it began. — Towards the evening Marianne became ill
again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. Her
sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to
nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made; and
carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction,
sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial
effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a
considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing
nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid,
who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the
housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
The repose of the latter
became more and more disturbed; and her sister, who watched, with
unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard the
frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was
almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when Marianne,
suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up,
and, with feverish wildness, cried out, —
"Is mama coming? —
"
"Not yet,"
cried the other,
concealing her terror, and assisting Marianne to lie down again,
"but she will be here, I
hope, before it is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to
Barton."
"But she must not go
round by London,"
cried Marianne, in the
same hurried manner.
"I shall never see her,
if she goes by London."
Elinor perceived with alarm
that she was not quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly
felt her pulse.
It was lower and
quicker than ever!
and Marianne, still talking
wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on
sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for
her mother. To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting
the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its
performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her
sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was
generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.
It was no time for
hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him. Her
fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of: —
he listened to them in silent despondence; — but her difficulties were
instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion,
and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the
messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was
not easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude,
and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and
an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her
mother.
The comfort of such a
friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon — or such a companion for her
mother, —
how gratefully was it felt!
—
a companion whose
judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship
might soothe her! — as far as the shock of such a summons COULD be
lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen
it.
HE, meanwhile, whatever he
might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every
necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with
exactness the time in which she might look for his return. Not a moment was
lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before they were
expected, and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of
solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the
carriage. It was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's
apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the
rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour
after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side,
and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her
apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security;
and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings
to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had
always thought.
Marianne's ideas were still,
at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned
her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching
herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for
some immediate relief,
fancied that
all relief might soon
be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long,
and pictured to herself her
suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her
rational.
She was on the point of
sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could not come, for some other
advice, when the former — but not till after five o'clock —
arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for
though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his
patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the
relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence
which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to Elinor. He promised to call
again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and
her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them.
With strong concern, and
with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings
hear in the morning of what had passed. Her former apprehensions, now with
greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying
to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not
allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The
rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must
have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings's
compassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her
companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly
injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a
favourite, was before her; — and as for their mother, when
Mrs. Jennings considered
that
Marianne might
probably be to HER what Charlotte was to herself,
her sympathy in HER
sufferings was very sincere.
Mr. Harris was punctual in
his second visit; — but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of
what the last would produce. His medicines had failed; — the fever was
unabated; and Marianne only more quiet — not more herself —
remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more than all, his
fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But he judged it
unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh
application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit
concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not
enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of
her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued
till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering
from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits
oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled
not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of
previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment had brought on.
Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to
her reflections.
About noon, however, she
began — but with a caution — a dread of disappointment which for
some time kept her silent, even to her friend — to fancy, to hope she
could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse; — she waited,
watched, and examined it again and again; — and at last, with an
agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her
foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though
forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep
her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance; — and
Elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not
to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its
anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch — she hardly knew
for what. Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed
her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all
flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her
with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in
equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of
Mr. Harris at four o'clock; — when his assurances, his felicitations
on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her
confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.
Marianne was in every
respect materially better, and
he declared her
entirely out of
danger.
Mrs. Jennings, perhaps
satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been
found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and
admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the
probability of an entire recovery.
Elinor could not be
cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led to any thing rather than
to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting
mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort,
and expand it in fervent gratitude; — but it led to no outward
demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Elinor's breast was
satisfaction, silent and strong.
She continued by the side of
her sister, with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every
fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every
succour, and watching almost every look and every breath. The possibility of
a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur to remind her of what
anxiety was — but when she saw, on her frequent and minute
examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianne at
six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable,
sleep, she silenced every doubt.
The time was now drawing on,
when Colonel Brandon might be expected back.
At ten
o'clock,
she trusted,
or at least not much
later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she
must now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too! — perhaps
scarcely less an object of pity! — Oh! — how slow was the
progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance!
At seven o'clock, leaving
Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room
to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by their
sudden reverse, from eating much; — and the present refreshment,
therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was
particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her, at its
conclusion, to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow HER to
take her place by Marianne; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no
capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept
away from her sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore
attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all
continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and
retired to her own room to write letters and sleep.
The night was cold and
stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the
windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not. Marianne slept
through every blast; and the travellers — they had a rich reward in
store, for every present inconvenience.
The clock struck eight. Had
it been ten, Elinor would have been convinced that at that moment she heard
a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the persuasion that
she DID, in spite of the ALMOST impossibility of their being already come,
that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window
shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had
not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.
By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by
four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm,
gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor
found it so difficult to be calm, as at that moment. The knowledge of what
her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopt at the door — of her
doubt — her dread — perhaps her despair! — and of what SHE
had to tell! — with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. All
that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till
she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down
stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule,
as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in
the house. She rushed to the drawing-room, — she entered it, —
and saw only Willoughby.
Chapter 44
Elinor, starting back with a
look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in
turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock,
when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a
voice rather of command than supplication,
"Miss Dashwood, for half an
hour — for ten minutes — I entreat you to stay."
"No, sir,"
she replied with
firmness,
"I shall NOT stay. Your
business cannot be with ME. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you
that Mr. Palmer was not in the house."
"Had they told
me,"
he cried with
vehemence,
"that Mr. Palmer and all
his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
door. My business is with you, and only you."
"With me!" —
in the utmost amazement
—
"well, sir, — be
quick — and if you can — less violent."
"Sit down, and I will be
both."
She hesitated; she knew not
what to do. The possibility of Colonel Brandon's arriving and finding her
there, came across her. But she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity
no less than her honor was engaged. After a moment's recollection,
therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her
acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table,
and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word
was said by either.
"Pray be quick, sir,"
—
said Elinor,
impatiently; —
"I have no time to
spare."
He was sitting in an
attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her.
"Your sister,"
said he, with
abruptness, a moment afterwards —
"is out of danger. I
heard it from the servant. God be praised! — But is it true? is it
really true?"
Elinor would not speak. He
repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness.
"For God's sake tell me, is
she out of danger, or is she not?"
"We hope she is."
He rose up, and walked
across the room.
"Had I known as much
half an hour ago — But since I AM here," —
speaking with a forced
vivacity as he returned to his seat —
"what does it signify?
— For once, Miss Dashwood — it will be the last time,
perhaps — let us be cheerful together. — I am in a fine mood
for gaiety. — Tell me honestly" —
a deeper glow
overspreading his cheeks —
"do you think me most a
knave or a fool?"
Elinor looked at him with
greater astonishment than ever.
She began to think
that
he must be in
liquor;
— the strangeness of
such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and
with this impression she immediately rose, saying,
"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you
at present to return to Combe — I am not at leisure to remain with you
longer. — Whatever your business may be with me, will it be better
recollected and explained to-morrow."
"I understand
you,"
he replied, with an
expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm;
"yes, I am very drunk.
— A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to
over-set me."
"At Marlborough!"
—
cried Elinor, more and more
at a loss to understand what he would be at.
"Yes, — I left London
this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of
my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough."
The steadiness of his
manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that
whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not
brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's
recollection,
"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to
feel, and I certainly DO — that after what has passed — your
coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a
very particular excuse. — What is it, that you mean by it?"—
"I mean,"—
said he, with serious
energy —
"if I can, to make you
hate me one degree less than you do NOW. I mean to offer some kind of
explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
forgiveness from Ma — from your sister."
"Is this the real reason of
your coming?"
"Upon my soul it is,"
—
was his answer, with a
warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in
spite of herself made her think him sincere.
"If that is all, you may be
satisfied already, — for Marianne DOES — she has LONG forgiven
you."
"Has she?"
—
he cried, in the same
eager tone. —
"Then she has forgiven
me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and
on more reasonable grounds. — NOW will you listen to me?"
Elinor bowed her
assent.
"I do not know,"
said he, after a pause
of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own,
—
"how YOU may have
accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you
may have imputed to me. — Perhaps you will hardly think the better
of me, — it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every
thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other
intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time
pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly
than I had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person and interesting
manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the
first, was of a kind — It is astonishing, when I reflect on what
it was, and what SHE was, that my heart should have been so insensible!
But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless
of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to
feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I
endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her,
without any design of returning her affection."
Miss Dashwood, at this
point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by
saying,
"It is hardly worth while,
Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a
beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. — Do not let me be
pained by hearing any thing more on the subject."
"I insist on you hearing
the whole of it,"
he replied,
"My fortune was never
large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since
my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a
thing to be thought of; — and with a meanness, selfishness,
cruelty — which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours,
Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much — I was acting in this
manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.
— But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of
selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated,
because I did not THEN know what it was to love. But have I ever known
it? — Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I
have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? — or, what is
more, could I have sacrificed hers? — But I have done it. To avoid
a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have
deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence,
lost every thing that could make it a blessing."
"You did then,"
said Elinor, a little
softened,
"believe yourself at one
time attached to her?"
"To have resisted such
attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! — Is there a man
on earth who could have done it? — Yes, I found myself, by
insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my
life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly
honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even THEN, however, when fully
determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most
improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an
unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so
greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here — nor will I stop for
YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of
scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The
event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great
circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible
and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I
had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the
attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an
affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the
interim — in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass,
before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private
— a circumstance occurred — an unlucky circumstance, to ruin
all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took
place,"—
here he hesitated and
looked down. —
"Mrs. Smith had somehow
or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose
interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection
— but I need not explain myself farther,"
he added, looking at her
with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye —
"your particular
intimacy — you have probably heard the whole story long
ago."
"I have,"
returned Elinor,
colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion
for him,
"I have heard it all.
And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful
business, I confess is beyond my comprehension."
"Remember,"
cried Willoughby,
"from whom you received
the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her
situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not
mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose
that I have nothing to urge — that because she was injured she was
irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint. If
the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding —
I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved
better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the
tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any
return. I wish — I heartily wish it had never been. But I have
injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for
me — (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose
mind — Oh! how infinitely superior!"—
"Your indifference, however,
towards that unfortunate girl — I must say it, unpleasant to me as the
discussion of such a subject may well be — your indifference is no
apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any
weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton
cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were
enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always
happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence."
"But, upon my soul, I
did NOT know it,"
he warmly
replied;
"I did not recollect
that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have
told her how to find it out."
"Well, sir, and what said
Mrs. Smith?"
"She taxed me with the
offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life,
the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world — every thing
was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every
endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the
morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the
very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had
bestowed on her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach.
By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality,
good woman! she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That
could not be — and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her
house. The night following this affair — I was to go the next morning
— was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.
The struggle was great — but it ended too soon. My affection for
Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me — it was all
insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those
false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to
feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself
secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself
to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A heavy
scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire; — I was
engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore
necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write this
apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To see
Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see
her again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued
my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw
her miserable, and left her miserable — and left her hoping never to
see her again."
"Why did you call, Mr.
Willoughby?"
said Elinor,
reproachfully;
"a note would have
answered every purpose. — Why was it necessary to call?"
"It was necessary to my own
pride. I could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead
you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had
really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself — and I resolved therefore
on calling at the cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear
sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found
her alone. You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the
evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!
A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how
happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham,
satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in this, our last
interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost
took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her
deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so
immediately — I never shall forget it — united too with such
reliance, such confidence in me! — Oh, God! — what a
hard-hearted rascal I was!"
They were both silent for a
few moments. Elinor first spoke.
"Did you tell her that you
should soon return?"
"I do not know what I
told her,"
he replied,
impatiently;
"less than was due to
the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was
justified by the future. I cannot think of it. — It won't do.
— Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her
kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it DID torture me. I was
miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it
gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself
for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past
sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I
went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was
only indifferent. My journey to town — travelling with my own
horses, and therefore so tediously — no creature to speak to
— my own reflections so cheerful — when I looked forward
every thing so inviting! — when I looked back at Barton, the
picture so soothing! — oh, it was a blessed journey!"
He stopped.
"Well, sir,"
said Elinor, who, though
pitying him, grew impatient for his departure,
"and this is all?"
"Ah! — no, —
have you forgot what passed in town? — That infamous letter —
Did she shew it you?"
"Yes, I saw every note that
passed."
"When the first of hers
reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time,) what I
felt is — in the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple
one — perhaps too simple to raise any emotion — my feelings were
very, very painful. — Every line, every word was — in the
hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid
— a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town was —
in the same language — a thunderbolt. — Thunderbolts and
daggers! — what a reproof would she have given me! — her taste,
her opinions — I believe they are better known to me than my own,
— and I am sure they are dearer."
Elinor's heart, which had
undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was
now softened again; — yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas in
her companion as the last.
"This is not right, Mr.
Willoughby. — Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your
conscience you think necessary for me to hear."
"Marianne's note, by
assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite
of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her
own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever,
awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London, business
and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a
fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to
fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of
our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my
shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming
every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be heartily glad to
hear she is well married.' — But this note made me know myself better.
I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the
world, and that I was using her infamously. But every thing was then just
settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had
to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by
that to preserve myself from her farther notice; and for some time I was
even determined not to call in Berkeley Street; — but at last, judging
it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything
else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my
name."
"Watched us out of the
house!"
"Even so. You would be
surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of
falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the
carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day
in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but
the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing
desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided
the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely
to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town,
however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming,
and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a
dance at his house in the evening. — Had he NOT told me as an
inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it
too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The next morning brought
another short note from Marianne — still affectionate, open, artless,
confiding — everything that could make MY conduct most hateful. I
could not answer it. I tried — but could not frame a sentence. But I
thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you CAN pity me, Miss
Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN. With my head and heart full of
your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman! —
Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not
tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! — what
an evening of agony it was! — Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one
side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone! — Oh, God! — holding
out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes
fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face! — and Sophia, jealous as
the devil on the other hand, looking all that was — Well, it does not
signify; it is over now. — Such an evening! — I ran away from
you all as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face
as white as death. — THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;
— the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight!
— yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of
comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those,
who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as
I travelled, in the same look and hue."
A short pause of mutual
thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it
thus:
"Well, let me make haste and
be gone. Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?"
"We are assured of
it."
"Your poor mother, too!
— doting on Marianne."
"But the letter, Mr.
Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?"
"Yes, yes, THAT in
particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning.
You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons, — and her
letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It
happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine — and its size,
the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her
a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to
some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation
the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more
jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is
delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read
its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her
wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion — her
malice — At all events it must be appeased. And, in short — what
do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing? — delicate —
tender — truly feminine — was it not?"
"Your wife! — The
letter was in your own hand-writing."
"Yes, but I had only the
credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name
to. The original was all her own — her own happy thoughts and gentle
diction. But what could I do! — we were engaged, every thing in
preparation, the day almost fixed — But I am talking like a fool.
Preparation! — day! — In honest words, her money was necessary
to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a
rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion
of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched? —
It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a
scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little
importance. — 'I am ruined for ever in their opinion — ' said I
to myself — 'I am shut out for ever from their society, they already
think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a
blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate
carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of
Marianne. Her three notes — unluckily they were all in my pocketbook,
or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever — I
was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of
hair — that too I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book,
which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,
— the dear lock — all, every memento was torn from me."
"You are very wrong, Mr.
Willoughby, very blamable,"
said Elinor, while her
voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
"you ought not to speak
in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had made your
own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your
politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or
she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak
of her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne — nor can I suppose
it a relief to your own conscience."
"Do not talk to me of my
wife,"
said he with a heavy
sigh. —
"She does not deserve
your compassion. — She knew I had no regard for her when we
married. — Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to
be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. — And now do
you pity me, Miss Dashwood? — or have I said all this to no
purpose? — Am I — be it only one degree — am I less
guilty in your opinion than I was before? — My intentions were not
always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?"
"Yes, you have certainly
removed something — a little. — You have proved yourself, on the
whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less
wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know — the misery that you have
inflicted — I hardly know what could have made it worse."
"Will you repeat to your
sister when she is recovered, what I have been telling you? — Let me
be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in yours.
You tell me that
she has forgiven me
already.
Let me be able to fancy that
a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from
her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified,
forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence — tell her that my
heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she
is dearer to me than ever."
"I will tell her all that is
necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. But you
have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how
you heard of her illness."
"Last night, in Drury Lane
lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw who I was —
for the first time these two months — he spoke to me. — That he
had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or
resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of
indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the
temptation of telling me what he knew ought to — though probably he
did not think it WOULD — vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak
it, therefore,
he told me that
Marianne Dashwood
was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland — a letter that morning
received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent — the
Palmers are all gone off in a fright,
&c. — I was too
much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the
undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so
much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me
by the hand while
he reminded me of
an old promise
about a pointer puppy.
What I felt on hearing that
your sister was dying — and dying too, believing me the greatest
villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments — for
how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? ONE
person I was sure would represent me as capable of any thing — What I
felt was dreadful! — My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock
this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all."
Elinor made no
answer.
Her thoughts were silently
fixed
on the irreparable
injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of
idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the
happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a
disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper.
The world had made him extravagant and vain — Extravagance and vanity
had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty
triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment,
which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be
sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him
likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against
feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now,
when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for
the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,
was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more
incurable nature.
From a reverie of this kind
she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing
himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation
for going, and said —
"There is no use in staying
here; I must be off."
"Are you going back to
town?"
"No — to Combe Magna.
I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good
bye."
He held out his hand. She
could not refuse to give him hers; — he pressed it with
affection.
"And you DO think something
better of me than you did?"—
said he, letting it fall,
and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go.
Elinor assured him
that
she did; — that
she forgave, pitied, wished him well — was even interested in his
happiness —
and added some gentle
counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not
very encouraging.
"As to that,"
said he,
"I must rub through the
world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If,
however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my
fate and actions, it may be the means — it may put me on my guard
— at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure
is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty
again — "
Elinor stopped him with a
reproof.
"Well," —
he replied
—
"once more good bye. I
shall now go away and live in dread of one event."
"What do you mean?"
"Your sister's
marriage."
"You are very wrong. She can
never be more lost to you than she is now."
"But she will be gained by
some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all
others, I could least bear — but I will not stay to rob myself of all
your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where I have most injured I can
least forgive. Good bye, — God bless you!"
And with these words, he
almost ran out of the room.
Chapter 45
Elinor, for some time after
he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died
away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in
themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of
her sister.
Willoughby, he, whom
only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men,
Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration
for the sufferings produced by them,
which
made her think of him
as
now separated for
ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in
proportion,
as
she soon acknowledged
within herself
— to his wishes
than to his merits.
She felt that
his influence over
her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have
weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and
lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent
love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge.
But
she felt that
it was so, long, long
before she could feel his influence less.
When at last she returned to
the unconscious Marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long
and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The
past, the present, the future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and
her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of
spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only
fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in
which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's
leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another
carriage. — Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's
horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the
outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered
it.
Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror
as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of Marianne's
being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor;
but SHE, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the
joyful relief; — and her mother, catching it with all her usual
warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been
before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her
daughter and her friend; — and there, shedding tears of joy, though
still unable to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at
intervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once
her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her
own.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had
recovered herself, to see Marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes
she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence,
unhappiness, and danger. Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the
meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of
farther sleep; — but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even
prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in
knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every
nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night; and Elinor,
in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which
one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety
seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits.
Willoughby,
"poor
Willoughby,"
as she now allowed herself
to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard
his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for
having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it to her
sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded
what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether after such an
explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished
Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved
herself,
felt that
to HIS sufferings and
his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was
due,
and wished any thing rather
than Mrs. Willoughby's death.
The shock of Colonel
Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her
own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne, that she
had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very day, without
waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey
before his arrival, that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch
Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be
infection.
Marianne continued to mend
every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and
spirits proved her to be, as
she repeatedly declared
herself,
one of the happiest
women in the world.
Elinor could not hear the
declaration, nor witness its proofs without
sometimes wondering
whether her mother
ever recollected Edward.
But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting
to the temperate account of her own disappointment which Elinor had sent
her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would
increase it.
Marianne was
restored to her from a danger in which,
as she now began to
feel,
her own mistaken
judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
contributed to place her;
— and in her recovery
she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus
imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between
them occurred.
"At last we are alone. My
Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves
Marianne. He has told me so himself."
Her daughter, feeling by
turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent
attention.
"You are never like me, dear
Elinor, or I should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for
any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's
marrying one of you as the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne
will be the most happy with him of the two."
Elinor was half inclined to
ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none
founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings,
could be given; — but her mother must always be carried away by her
imagination on any interesting subject,
and therefore instead of an
inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
"He opened his whole heart
to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite
undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child;
— he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it equalled my own,
and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would
not justify so warm a sympathy — or rather, not thinking at all, I
suppose — giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with
his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my
Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her."
Here, however, Elinor
perceived, — not the language, not the professions of Colonel Brandon,
but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned
every thing delightful to her as it chose.
"His regard for her,
infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much
more warm, as more sincere or constant — which ever we are to call it
— has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy
prepossession for that worthless young man! — and without selfishness
— without encouraging a hope! — could he have seen her happy
with another — Such a noble mind! — such openness, such
sincerity! — no one can be deceived in HIM."
"Colonel Brandon's
character,"
said Elinor,
"as an excellent man, is
well established."
"I know it is,"
—
replied her mother
seriously,
"or after such a
warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be
pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such
ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of
men."
"His character, however,"
answered Elinor,
"does not rest on ONE act
of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of
the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons,
he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect
him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne
can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our
connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did you
give him? — Did you allow him to hope?"
"Oh! my love, I could not
then talk of hope to him or to myself. Marianne might at that moment be
dying. But he did not ask for hope or encouragement. His was an involuntary
confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend — not an
application to a parent. Yet after a time I DID say, for at first I was
quite overcome — that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my
greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our
arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more
fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little
time, I tell him, will do everything; — Marianne's heart is not to be
wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby. — His own merits must
soon secure it."
"To judge from the Colonel's
spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine."
"No. — He thinks
Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great
length of time, and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of
himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he
could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only
so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and
principles fixed; — and his disposition, I am well convinced, is
exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners
too, are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is
not so handsome as Willoughby — but at the same time, there is
something much more pleasing in his countenance. — There was always a
something, — if you remember, — in Willoughby's eyes at times,
which I did not like."
Elinor could NOT remember
it; — but her mother, without waiting for her assent,
continued,
"And his manners, the
Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to me than Willoughby's ever
were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to
Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and
their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real
disposition, than the liveliness — often artificial, and often
ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned
out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would
yet never have been so happy with HIM, as she will be with Colonel
Brandon."
She paused. — Her
daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and
therefore gave no offence.
"At Delaford, she will
be within an easy distance of me,"
added Mrs.
Dashwood,
"even if I remain at
Barton; and in all probability, — for I hear it is a large
village, — indeed there certainly MUST be some small house or
cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present
situation."
Poor Elinor! — here
was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford! — but her spirit was
stubborn.
"His fortune too! —
for at my time of life you know, everybody cares about THAT; — and
though I neither know nor desire to know, what it really is, I am sure it
must be a good one."
Here they were interrupted
by the entrance of a third person, and Elinor withdrew to think it all over
in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a
pang for Willoughby.
Chapter 46
Marianne's illness, though
weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow;
and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it
proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after the
arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her
own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to
him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit
her.
His emotion on entering the
room, in seeing her altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she
immediately held out to him,
was such, as,
in Elinor's
conjecture,
must arise from
something more than his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its
being known to others;
and she soon discovered in
his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the
probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back
by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now
strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining
weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
Mrs. Dashwood, not less
watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently
influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in
the Colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident
sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne
she persuaded herself to
think that
something more than
gratitude already dawned.
At the end of another day or
two, Marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood,
urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of
removing to Barton. On HER measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs.
Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel
Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode
there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.
Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better
accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of
Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly
and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to
redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks.
The day of separation and
departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a
leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and
kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of
past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of
a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he
seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the
travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to
her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two
young companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his
solitary way to Delaford.
The Dashwoods were two days
on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on both, without essential
fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous
care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful
companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness
of spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly
grateful.
She,
who had seen her week after
week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had
neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal,
now saw
with a joy, which no other
could equally share,
an apparent composure
of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection,
must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.
As they approached Barton,
indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought
some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful,
and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through
the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she
saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying,
she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender
than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of
her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to
reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of
resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight
of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected.
— She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and
though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the
atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte. She went
to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured
for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing
on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing. —
That would not do.
—
She shook her head, put the
music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again;
declaring
however with firmness as she
did so,
that
she should in future
practice much.
The next morning produced no
abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body
alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit,
anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return, and talking of the dear
family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and
cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.
"When the weather is
settled, and I have recovered my strength,"
said she,
"we will take long walks
together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down,
and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John's new
plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go the
old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we
are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer
will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and
from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and
reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course
of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be
resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many
works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more
modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By
reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a
twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to
want."
Elinor honoured her for a
plan which originated so nobly as this; though
smiling to see
the same eager fancy
which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish
repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational
employment and virtuous self-control.
Her smile however changed to
a sigh when
she remembered that
promise to Willoughby
was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might
again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair
prospect of busy tranquillity.
Willing therefore to delay
the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more
secure, before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be
broken.
Marianne had been two or
three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like
herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as
might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne,
leaning on Elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without
fatigue, in the lane before the house.
The sisters set out at a
pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried
since her illness required; — and they had advanced only so far beyond
the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind,
when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said,
"There, exactly there,"
—
pointing with one
hand,
"on that projecting
mound, — there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby."
Her voice sunk with the
word, but presently reviving she added,
"I am thankful to find
that I can look with so little pain on the spot! — shall we ever
talk on that subject, Elinor?" —
hesitatingly it was
said. —
"Or will it be wrong?
— I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do." —
Elinor tenderly invited her
to be open.
"As for regret,"
said Marianne,
"I have done with that,
as far as HE is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my
feelings have been for him, but what they are NOW. — At present,
if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think
that he was not ALWAYS acting a part, not ALWAYS deceiving me; —
but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so VERY wicked as
my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate
girl" —
She stopt. Elinor joyfully
treasured her words as she answered,
"If you could be assured of
that, you think you should be easy."
"Yes. My peace of mind is
doubly involved in it; — for not only is it horrible to suspect a
person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of such designs, — but
what must it make me appear to myself? — What in a situation like
mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to"
—
"How then,"
asked her sister,
"would you account for
his behaviour?"
"I would suppose him,
— Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle, very, very
fickle."
Elinor said no more. She was
debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly,
or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health; — and they
crept on for a few minutes in silence.
"I am not wishing him
too much good,"
said Marianne at last
with a sigh,
"when I wish his secret
reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough
in them."
"Do you compare your conduct
with his?"
"No. I compare it with what
it ought to have been; I compare it with yours."
"Our situations have borne
little resemblance."
"They have borne more than
our conduct. — Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend
what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think —
It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I
was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered
the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance
with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and
want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my
sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to
the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself
by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be
wrong. Had I died, — it would have been self-destruction. I did not
know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these
reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery, — wonder that the very
eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to
you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died, — in what peculiar
misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister! — You,
who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known
all the murmurings of my heart! — How should I have lived in YOUR
remembrance! — My mother too! How could you have consoled her! —
I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the
past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed
injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had
repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the
Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust;
with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their
very attention. — To John, to Fanny, — yes, even to them, little
as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, — you above
all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart
and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me? — not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself. — Your example was before
me; but to what avail? — Was I more considerate of you and your
comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by
taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular
gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? — No;
— not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you
at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely
allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart
which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an
unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake."
Here ceased the rapid flow
of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too
honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her
frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and
replied,
"You are very good. —
The future must be my proof. I have laid down my plan, and if I am capable
of adhering to it — my feelings shall be governed and my temper
improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I shall now
live solely for my family. You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be
all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you. From
you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move;
and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is
humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the
lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby
— to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be
idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or
opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by
reason, by constant employment."
She paused — and added
in a low voice,
"If I could but know HIS
heart, everything would become easy."
Elinor, who had now been for
some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding
her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard
this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all,
soon found herself leading to the fact.
She managed the recital, as
she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related
simply and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded his
apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations
of present regard. Marianne said not a word. — She trembled, her eyes
were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had
left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not
urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her
cheeks.
Elinor, dreading her being
tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage,
easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be though no question was
suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, and their
conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of
speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they
entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words
just articulate through her tears,
"Tell mama,"
withdrew from her sister and
walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so
reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging
its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne
fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
injunction.
Chapter 47
Mrs. Dashwood did not hear
unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being
cleared from some part of his imputed guilt; —
she was sorry for
him; — she wished him happy.
But the feelings of the past
could not be recalled. — Nothing could restore him with a faith
unbroken — a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do away
the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove
the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him,
therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel
Brandon.
Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her
daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself — had she witnessed
his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his
manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. But it
was neither in Elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in
another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in
herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own
opinion of Willoughby's deserts; — she wished, therefore, to declare
only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his
character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy
astray.
In the evening, when they
were all three together, Marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again;
— but that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet
thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting
— her rising colour, as she spoke, — and her unsteady voice,
plainly shewed.
"I wish to assure you
both,"
said she,
"that I see every thing
— as you can desire me to do."
Mrs. Dashwood would have
interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who
really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign,
engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued —
"It is a great relief to
me — what Elinor told me this morning — I have now heard
exactly what I wished to hear." —
For some moments her
voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater
calmness than before —
"I am now perfectly
satisfied, I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with him,
after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this. — I
should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it
away to my feelings."
"I know it — I
know it,"
cried her mother.
"Happy with a man of
libertine practices! — With one who so injured the peace of the
dearest of our friends, and the best of men! — No — my
Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man! — Her
conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the
conscience of her husband ought to have felt."
Marianne sighed, and
repeated,
"I wish for no
change."
"You consider the
matter,"
said Elinor,
"exactly as a good mind
and a sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive,
as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,
reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you
in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have
been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain.
Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is
acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that
self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your
inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought
on distresses which would not be the LESS grievous to you, from having
been entirely unknown and unthought of before. YOUR sense of honour and
honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to
attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps,
as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might
have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that — and how
little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin
which had begun before your marriage? — Beyond THAT, had you
endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge HIS enjoyments, is it not to
be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent
to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made
him regret the connection which had involved him in such
difficulties?"
Marianne's lips quivered,
and she repeated the word
"Selfish?"
in a tone that implied
—
"do you really think him
selfish?"
"The whole of his
behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been
grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport
with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made
him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from
Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular,
his ruling principle."
"It is very true. MY
happiness never was his object."
"At present,"
continued Elinor,
"he regrets what he has
done. And why does he regret it? — Because he finds it has not
answered towards himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances
are now unembarrassed — he suffers from no evil of that kind; and
he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than
yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been
happy? — The inconveniences would have been different. He would
then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they
are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of
whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always
necessitous — always poor; and probably would soon have learned to
rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of
far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of
a wife."
"I have not a doubt of
it,"
said Marianne;
"and I have nothing to
regret — nothing but my own folly."
"Rather say your
mother's imprudence, my child,"
said Mrs.
Dashwood;
"SHE must be
answerable."
Marianne would not let her
proceed; — and Elinor, satisfied that each felt their own error,
wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's
spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately
continued,
"One observation may, I
think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story — that all
Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue,
in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every
lesser one, and of all his present discontents."
Marianne assented most
feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of
Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could
unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were
heard by her.
Elinor, according to her
expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that Marianne did not
continue to gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was
unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could
safely trust to the effect of time upon her health.
Margaret returned, and the
family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the
cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour
as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution
of them in future.
Elinor grew impatient for
some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of him since her leaving
London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode.
Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of
Marianne's illness; and in the first of John's, there had been this
sentence: —
"We know nothing of our
unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject,
but conclude him to be still at Oxford;"
which was all the
intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was
not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed,
however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.
Their man-servant had been
sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he
had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand,
this was his voluntary communication —
"I suppose you know, ma'am,
that Mr. Ferrars is married."
Marianne gave a violent
start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in
her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the
servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to
perceive by Elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment
afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which
child to bestow her principal attention.
The servant, who saw only
that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids,
who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. By
that time, Marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the
care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much
disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be
just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.
Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had
the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.
"Who told you that Mr.
Ferrars was married, Thomas?"
"I see Mr. Ferrars myself,
ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They
was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there
with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the
post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see
directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew
me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies,
especially Miss Marianne, and
bid me
I should give her
compliments and Mr. Ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how
sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a
great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little
while, but howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see
you."
"But did she tell you she
was married, Thomas?"
"Yes, ma'am. She smiled,
and
said
how she had changed
her name since she was in these parts.
She was always a very
affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free
to wish her joy."
"Was Mr. Ferrars in the
carriage with her?"
"Yes, ma'am, I just see him
leaning back in it, but he did not look up; — he never was a gentleman
much for talking."
Elinor's heart could easily
account for his not putting himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably
found the same explanation.
"Was there no one else in
the carriage?"
"No, ma'am, only they
two."
"Do you know where they came
from?"
"They come straight
from town,
as Miss Lucy — Mrs.
Ferrars told me."
"And are they going farther
westward?"
"Yes, ma'am — but not
to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call
here."
Mrs. Dashwood now looked at
her daughter; but Elinor knew better than to expect them. She recognised the
whole of Lucy in the message, and
was very confident
that
Edward would never
come near them.
She observed
in a low voice, to her
mother,
that
they were probably
going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.
Thomas's intelligence seemed
over. Elinor looked as if she wished to hear more.
"Did you see them off,
before you came away?"
"No, ma'am — the
horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid
of being late."
"Did Mrs. Ferrars look
well?"
"Yes, ma'am,
she said how
she was very
well;
and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady — and she seemed vastly
contented."
Mrs. Dashwood could think of
no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were
soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say, that she should
eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost,
and Margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness
as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often
had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without
her dinner before.
When the dessert and the
wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves,
they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.
Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer
consolation. She now found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's
representation of herself; and justly
concluded that
every thing had been
expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of
unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.
She found that
she had been misled
by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the
attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality,
than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be.
She feared that
under this persuasion
she had been unjust,
inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;
— that
Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before
her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that
in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with
less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.
Chapter 48
Elinor now found the
difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain
the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself.
She now found, that
in spite of herself,
she had always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something
would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his own,
some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of
establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. But
he was now married;
and she condemned her heart
for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the
intelligence.
That he should be married
soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently
before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at
first. But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-provident
care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every thing but the risk
of delay. They were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her
uncle's.
What had Edward felt
on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on
hearing Lucy's message!
They would
soon,
she supposed,
be settled at
Delaford.
— Delaford, —
that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she
wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an
instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active, contriving
manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost
frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;
— pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of
Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward
— she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see; — happy
or unhappy, — nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every
sketch of him.
Elinor flattered herself
that
some one of their
connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give
farther particulars, —
but day after day passed
off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that any one were
to blame, she found fault with every absent friend.
They were all
thoughtless or indolent.
"When do you write to Colonel
Brandon, ma'am?"
was an inquiry which sprung
from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
"I wrote to him, my love,
last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear from him again. I
earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him
walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."
This was gaining something,
something to look forward to. Colonel Brandon must have some information to
give.
Scarcely had she so
determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the
window. He stopt at their gate. It was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon
himself.
Now she could hear
more;
and she trembled in
expectation of it.
But — it was
NOT Colonel Brandon — neither his air — nor his height.
Were it possible,
she must say
it must be
Edward.
She looked again. He had
just dismounted; — she could not be mistaken, —
it WAS Edward.
She moved away and sat
down.
"He comes from Mr. Pratt's
purposely to see us. I WILL be calm; I WILL be mistress of myself."
In a moment she perceived
that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and
Marianne change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few
sentences to each other. She would have given the world to be able to speak
— and
to make them understand
that
she hoped no
coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him; —
but she had no utterance,
and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud.
They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His
footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the
passage, and in another he was before them.
His countenance, as he
entered the room, was not too happy, even for Elinor. His complexion was
white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and
conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming,
as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in
the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of
forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
He coloured, and stammered
out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's lips had moved with her mother's, and,
when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands
with him too. But it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be
open, she sat down again and talked of the weather.
Marianne had retreated as
much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress; and Margaret,
understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent
on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she
could, and maintained a strict silence.
When Elinor had ceased to
rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. It was
put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood,
who felt obliged
to hope that he had
left Mrs. Ferrars very well.
In a hurried manner, he
replied in the affirmative.
Another pause.
Elinor resolving to exert
herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said,
"Is Mrs. Ferrars at
Longstaple?"
"At Longstaple!"
he replied, with an air
of surprise. —
"No, my mother is in
town."
"I meant,"
said Elinor, taking up
some work from the table,
"to inquire for Mrs.
EDWARD Ferrars."
She dared not look up;
— but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes on him. He
coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation,
said, —
"Perhaps you mean — my
brother — you mean Mrs. — Mrs. ROBERT Ferrars."
"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!"
—
was repeated by Marianne and
her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement; — and though Elinor
could not speak, even HER eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient
wonder. He rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not
knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while
spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he
spoke, said, in a hurried voice,
"Perhaps you do not know
— you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to —
to the youngest — to Miss Lucy Steele."
His words were echoed with
unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning
over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where
she was.
"Yes,"
said he,
"they were married last
week, and are now at Dawlish."
Elinor could sit it no
longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed,
burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease.
Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw her
hurry away, and perhaps saw — or even heard, her emotion; for
immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no
inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at
last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the
village — leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and
perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden; —
a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own
conjectures.
Chapter 49
Unaccountable, however, as
the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was
certain that Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be
employed was easily pre-determined by all; — for after experiencing
the blessings of ONE imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's
consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could
be expected of him in the failure of THAT, than the immediate contraction of
another.
His errand at Barton, in
fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Elinor to marry him; — and
considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it
might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as
he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked
himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of
exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was
received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said; —
that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours
after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent,
and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the
reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation
indeed was more than commonly joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph
of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released
without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed
his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love; — and
elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought
of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire.
He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;
— and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing,
grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him
before.
His heart was now open to
Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish
attachment to Lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of
twenty-four.
"It was a foolish, idle
inclination on my side,"
said he,
"the consequence of
ignorance of the world — and want of employment. Had my brother
given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the
care of Mr. Pratt, I think — nay, I am sure, it would never have
happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time,
a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any
pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her
for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied
attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I
must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of having
any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any myself, I
returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth
afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the
university would have given me; for I was not entered at Oxford till I
was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy
myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect
comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and
disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often
at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure
of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there
from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and
obliging. She was pretty too — at least I thought so THEN; and I
had seen so little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and
see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as
our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it
was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of
folly."
The change which a few hours
had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such
— so great — as promised them all, the satisfaction of a
sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to
love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his
release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure
for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the
sight and society of both.
Marianne could speak HER
happiness only by tears. Comparisons would occur — regrets would
arise; — and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was
of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor — how are
HER feelings to be described? — From the moment of learning that Lucy
was married to another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his
justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by
turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when she found
every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so
lately it had been, — saw him honourably released from his former
engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself
and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it
to be, — she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;
— and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized
with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness
to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.
Edward was now fixed at the
cottage at least for a week; — for whatever other claims might be made
on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the
enjoyment of Elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of
the past, the present, and the future; — for though a very few hours
spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects
than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with
lovers it is different. Between THEM no subject is finished, no
communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times
over.
Lucy's marriage, the
unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the
earliest discussions of the lovers; — and Elinor's particular
knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the
most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever
heard.
How they could be
thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a
girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any
admiration, — a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose
account that brother had been thrown off by his family —
it was beyond her
comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to
her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her
judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt
an explanation by supposing, that,
perhaps, at first
accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the
flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
Elinor remembered what
Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his own
mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time.
She repeated it to Edward.
"THAT was exactly like
Robert," —
was his immediate
observation. —
"And THAT,"
he presently
added,
"might perhaps be in HIS
head when the acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at
first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other
designs might afterward arise."
How long it had been
carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to
make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his
quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and
her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less
affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever
occurred to prepare him for what followed; — and when at last it burst
on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he
believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such
a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor's hands.
"DEAR SIR,
"Being very sure I have
long lost your affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own
on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to
think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was
another's. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my
fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes
proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too
generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections
entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned
from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which
place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would
first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,
"Your sincere well-wisher,
friend, and sister, "LUCY FERRARS.
"I have burnt all your
letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to
destroy my scrawls — but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to
keep."
Elinor read and returned it
without any comment.
"I will not ask your
opinion of it as a composition,"
said Edward.
—
"For worlds would not I
have had a letter of hers seen by YOU in former days. — In a
sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! — how I have blushed over
the pages of her writing! — and I believe I may say that since the
first half year of our foolish — business — this is the only
letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any
amends for the defect of the style."
"However it may have come
about,"
said Elinor, after a
pause, —
"they are certainly
married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate
punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment
against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has
actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very
deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will
hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy, than she
would have been by your marrying her."
"She will be more hurt by it,
for Robert always was her favourite. — She will be more hurt by it,
and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner."
In what state the affair
stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with
any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford
within four and twenty hours after Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one
object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form
any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate
connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss
Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking THAT fate, it is to be supposed, in
spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in
spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness
with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a
very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he DID, and
he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth
after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives.
That Lucy had
certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him
in her message by Thomas,
was perfectly clear to
Elinor;
and Edward himself, now
thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her
capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had
been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her
ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions — they had
been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last
letter reached him,
he had always believed her
to be
a well-disposed,
good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself.
Nothing but such a
persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which,
long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had
been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.
"I thought it my duty,"
said he,
"independent of my
feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not,
when I was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a
friend in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where
there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living
creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted
on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most
disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot
comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could
be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest
regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could not
foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living."
"No; but she might suppose
that something would occur in your favour; that your own family might in
time relent. And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement,
for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions.
The connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her
consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred,
it would be better for her to marry YOU than be single."
Edward was, of course,
immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than Lucy's
conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
Elinor scolded him, harshly
as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for
having spent so much time with them at Norland, when he must have felt his
own inconstancy.
"Your behaviour was
certainly very wrong,"
said she;
"because — to say
nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to
fancy and expect WHAT, as you were THEN situated, could never
be."
He could only plead an
ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his
engagement.
"I was simple enough to
think, that because my FAITH was plighted to another, there could be no
danger in my being with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was
to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour. I felt that I admired you,
but I told myself it was only friendship; and till I began to make
comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how far I was got.
After that, I suppose, I WAS wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the
arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no
better than these: — The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to
anybody but myself."
Elinor smiled, and shook her
head.
Edward heard with pleasure
of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the Cottage, as
he really wished
not only to be better
acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no
longer resented his giving him the living of Delaford —
"Which, at
present,"
said he,
"after thanks so
ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think I
have never forgiven him for offering."
NOW he felt astonished
himself that he had never yet been to the place. But so little interest had
he taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden,
and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the
tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon,
and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the
subject.
One question after this only
remained undecided, between them, one difficulty only was to be overcome.
They were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest approbation
of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make
their happiness certain — and they only wanted something to live upon.
Edward had two thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living,
was all that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.
Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite enough
in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply
them with the comforts of life.
Edward was not entirely
without hopes of some favourable change in his mother towards him; and on
THAT he rested for the residue of their income. But Elinor had no such
dependence; for since Edward would still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and
his chusing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language
as only a lesser evil than his chusing Lucy Steele,
she feared that
Robert's offence
would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.
About four days after
Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to complete Mrs. Dashwood's
satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time
since her living at Barton, more company with her than her house would hold.
Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and Colonel
Brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the Park; from
whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the
lovers' first tete-a-tete before breakfast.
A three weeks' residence at
Delaford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to
calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to
Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in Marianne's
looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her
mother's language, to make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and
such flattery, he did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached
him: — he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his
visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was
explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in
what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest
of Elinor.
It would be needless to say,
that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they
advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. Their
resemblance in good principles and good sense, in disposition and manner of
thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite them in friendship,
without any other attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and
two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and
immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and
judgment.
The letters from town, which
a few days before would have made every nerve in Elinor's body thrill with
transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion that mirth. Mrs.
Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation
against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr.
Edward, who,
she was sure,
had quite doted upon
the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at
Oxford. —
"I do think,"
she continued,
"nothing was ever
carried on so sly; for it was but two days before Lucy called and sat a
couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the matter,
not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day after, in a
great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get
to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went
off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor
Nancy had not seven shillings in the world; — so I was very glad
to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of
staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her,
to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness
not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor
Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him
to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him."
Mr. Dashwood's strains were
more solemn.
Mrs. Ferrars was the
most unfortunate of women — poor Fanny had suffered agonies of
sensibility —
and he considered the
existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder.
Robert's offence was
unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever
again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be
induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her
daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which
everything had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as
enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred
to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the
marriage;
and
he called on Elinor
to
join with him in
regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled,
than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the
family. —
He thus continued:
"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet
mentioned Edward's name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great
astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the occasion.
Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and I shall,
therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both
think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny,
and by her shewn to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know
the tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so
much as to be on good terms with her children."
This paragraph was of some
importance to the prospects and conduct of Edward. It determined him to
attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by
their brother and sister.
"A letter of proper
submission!"
repeated he;
"would they have me beg
my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to HER, and breach of honour
to ME? — I can make no submission — I am grown neither
humble nor penitent by what has passed. — I am grown very happy;
but that would not interest. — I know of no submission that IS
proper for me to make."
"You may certainly ask to
be forgiven,"
said Elinor,
"because you have
offended; — and I should think you might NOW venture so far as to
profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on
you your mother's anger."
He agreed that he
might.
"And when she has forgiven
you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a
second engagement, almost as imprudent in HER eyes as the first."
He had nothing to urge
against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission;
and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater
willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it was
resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should go to London, and
personally intreat her good offices in his favour. —
"And if they really DO
interest themselves,"
said Marianne, in her
new character of candour,
"in bringing about a
reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely
without merit."
After a visit on Colonel
Brandon's side of only three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted Barton
together. — They were to go immediately to Delaford, that Edward might
have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist his patron and
friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it; and from thence,
after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to
town.
Chapter 50
After a proper resistance on
the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent and so steady as to preserve her
from that reproach which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the
reproach of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to her presence, and
pronounced to be again her son.
Her family had of late been
exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of her life she had had two sons;
but the crime and annihilation of Edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of
one; the similar annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without
any; and now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.
In spite of his being
allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel the continuance of his
existence secure, till he had revealed his present engagement; for the
publication of that circumstance, he feared, might give a sudden turn to his
constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. With apprehensive
caution therefore it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected
calmness. Mrs. Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from
marrying Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power; —
told him, that
in Miss Morton he
would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;
— and enforced the
assertion, by
observing that
Miss Morton was the
daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was
only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than THREE;
but when she found that,
though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no
means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience
of the past, to submit — and therefore, after such an ungracious delay
as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of
good-will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and
Elinor.
What she would engage to do
towards augmenting their income was next to be considered; and here it
plainly appeared, that though Edward was now her only son, he was by no
means her eldest; for while Robert was inevitably endowed with a thousand
pounds a-year, not the smallest objection was made against Edward's taking
orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything
promised either for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand
pounds, which had been given with Fanny.
It was as much, however, as
was desired, and more than was expected, by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs.
Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised
at her not giving more.
With an income quite
sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, they had nothing to wait for
after Edward was in possession of the living, but the readiness of the
house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire for the accommodation
of Elinor, was making considerable improvements; and after waiting some time
for their completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand
disappointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the
workmen, Elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of
not marrying till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in
Barton church early in the autumn.
The first month after their
marriage was spent with their friend at the Mansion-house; from whence they
could superintend the progress of the Parsonage, and direct every thing as
they liked on the spot; — could chuse papers, project shrubberies, and
invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together,
were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in
their Parsonage by Michaelmas, and
she found
in Elinor and her husband,
as she really believed,
one of the happiest
couples in the world.
They had in fact nothing to
wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather
better pasturage for their cows.
They were visited on their
first settling by almost all their relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came
to inspect the happiness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised;
and even the Dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do
them honour.
"I will not say that I
am disappointed, my dear sister,"
said John, as they were
walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford House,
"THAT would be saying
too much, for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young
women in the world, as it is. But, I confess, it would give me great
pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His property here, his place,
his house, every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition!
— and his woods! — I have not seen such timber any where in
Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in Delaford Hanger! — And
though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the person to attract him
— yet I think it would altogether be advisable for you to have
them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel Brandon seems a
great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen — for, when
people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody else —
and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage, and so
forth; — in short, you may as well give her a chance — You
understand me." —
But though Mrs. Ferrars DID
come to see them, and always treated them with the make-believe of decent
affection, they were never insulted by her real favour and preference. THAT
was due to the folly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was
earned by them before many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of
the latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the
principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful
humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the
smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to
his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.
The whole of Lucy's
behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may
be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an
unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparently
obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no other
sacrifice than that of time and conscience. When Robert first sought her
acquaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only
with the view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her
to give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the
affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would
settle the matter. In that point, however, and that only, he erred; —
for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in
TIME, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce this
conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which
could only be removed by another half hour's discourse with himself. His
attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course.
Instead of talking of Edward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert,
— a subject on which he had always more to say than on any other, and
in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short,
it became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his
brother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very
proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What immediately
followed is known. They passed some months in great happiness at Dawlish;
for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut — and he drew
several plans for magnificent cottages; — and from thence returning to
town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple expedient of
asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was adopted. The forgiveness, at
first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who
had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none,
still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of
conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and
gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the
haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon
afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and
influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert or
Fanny; and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having once
intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and
birth, was spoken of as an intruder, SHE was in every thing considered, and
always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. They settled in town,
received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms
imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will
continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of
course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between
Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they
all lived together.
What Edward had done to
forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out;
and what Robert had done to succeed to it, might have puzzled them still
more. It was an arrangement, however, justified in its effects, if not in
its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of
talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as
either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much; —
and if Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in
every particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home,
and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no
less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an
exchange.
Elinor's marriage divided
her as little from her family as could well be contrived, without rendering
the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent
much more than half their time with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives
of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford;
for her wish of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly
less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It
was now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her daughter to
her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her
valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally
the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and their own
obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of
all.
With such a confederacy
against her — with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness —
with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though
long after it was observable to everybody else — burst on her —
what could she do?
Marianne Dashwood was born
to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own
opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. She
was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen,
and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship,
voluntarily to give her hand to another! — and THAT other, a man who
had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment,
whom, two years before,
she had considered
too old to be
married, —
and who still sought the
constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
But so it was. Instead of
falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly
flattered herself with expecting, — instead of remaining even for ever
with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as
afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on,
— she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments,
entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a
family, and the patroness of a village.
Colonel Brandon was now as
happy, as all those who best loved him, believed he deserved to be; —
in Marianne he was consoled for every past affliction; — her regard
and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to
cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was
equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend. Marianne could
never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted
to her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby.
Willoughby could not hear of
her marriage without a pang; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete
in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage
with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency, gave him reason
for believing that had he behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at
once have been happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus
brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted; — nor
that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with
regret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or
contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not
be depended on — for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently
to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always
uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every
kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.
For Marianne, however
— in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss — he always
retained that decided regard which interested him in every thing that befell
her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman; — and
many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days
as bearing no
comparison with Mrs. Brandon.
Mrs. Dashwood was prudent
enough to remain at the cottage, without attempting a removal to Delaford;
and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, when Marianne was taken from
them, Margaret had reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very
ineligible for being supposed to have a lover.
Between Barton and Delaford,
there was that constant communication which strong family affection would
naturally dictate; — and among the merits and the happiness of Elinor
and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though
sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live
without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their
husbands.
THE END